100daystooffload &mdash; The Lantern Room https://lanternroom.writeas.com/tag:100daystooffload Clouded brilliance refracted through this human's heart. Tue, 18 Aug 2026 12:02:35 +0000 3000 Miles of Tears https://lanternroom.writeas.com/3000-miles-of-tears?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ “To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”
 — Thomas Campbell !--more-- You may recall my forlorn farewell to an old friend from a few days ago. DE lived in Dust Meridian for nearly 20 years. Before that, it was two decades in the South Pacific and another ten in Southern California. He’s a mature man in his mid-sixties, so it came as a surprise when he pulled up stakes, sold both of his homes, and headed to the other side of the country. He says it’s for his wife’s health. The allergies here in Dust are brutal for many. On top of that, years ago, she suffered a stroke that left her speaking with what sounds like an Icelandic accent. Her heritage and native tongue are Peruvian. She went from sounding like a southern girl to something ethereal and ancient—almost elvish. Like someone installed an Old Norse filter on her voice. I thought she was faking it at first, but it’s a real thing. Foreign Accent Syndrome. Rare, but real. The result of a traumatic brain injury that causes someone to suddenly start speaking with an accent from a region they’ve never even visited. In her case, it even shows up in her writing. She spells things phonetically now, based on how she hears herself speak. It’s charming, honestly. But also a constant reminder of how fragile the brain is. That same stroke could’ve left her unable to communicate at all. That would’ve been a terror. My own sister suffered a hypoxic brain injury—lost her short-term memory, and now struggles even with simple tasks. She’s aware of her limitations, which might be the cruelest part. It occasionally lends itself to moments of levity, but mostly, it’s just tragic. As for DE, I don’t doubt his reasons—physical or mental. His wife or his own. From experience, I believe the lifestyle and mentality here in Dust Meridian takes a tole on anyone with sufficiently curious or robust intellect. That sounds harsh. Like dummies thrive here. Apologies—I calls ’em like I sees ’em. There are many fine minds here, many dear souls. But there are also plenty of fantastically difficult situations. My own family not excluded. So no, I don’t blame DE for the move. It’s exciting. I’m a little jealous, if I’m honest. Not that I’d pack up three trucks and drive 1,500 miles to West Potato—but the idea of a fresh start, a new landscape, is tempting. Then again, he’s lived in three other vastly different places. Why not make it four? He’s tapped all four compass points while he still can. --- My brother-in-law, RLW, volunteered to be part of the cross-country convoy, hauling DE’s belongings to his new home. That’s significant because RLW is the same man who buried his wife—my wife’s sister—just sixty-nine days ago. A partner of 45 years, gone in an instant. Snuffed out like a candle in the rain. When talk of the trip started, RLW had big plans. He’d trailer his motorcycle behind one of DE’s work trucks, help with the move, then spend a few days exploring West Potato. From there, he’d kit out the bike and ride west—through the Northwest, down to the Pacific. He talked of revisiting places he and his wife had seen, and discovering new ones. He didn’t say it aloud, but I suspect he meant to scatter some ashes along the way. But as time wore on, the plans shrank. Late spring snow made the northern routes dicey. Then he nixed the coast. West Potato lies just beyond the Continental Divide, and soon enough, he cut out any idea of leaving the mountains at all. By the time he left two days ago, the month-long journey had been trimmed to a week. A few hours ago, he texted that he’ll be back in Dust Meridian tomorrow night. Yep. Thirty days of freedom and healing, whittled down to just four. There and back. Turn and burn. --- His son, SLBY—the boy (a man in his thirties, forgive an aging Wolf)—tells me he thinks his dad just misses home. The quiet of the road was heavier than expected. That makes sense. My nephew wants his dad to get out and see new places, to build memories without her. A critical step in healing. When I speak to RLW, he says it’s his son and grandson who are nudging him to come back. He can 'hear it in his voice' that if he was back, they would all be happier. Home is big and lonely and his son misses his family. Doesn't like being without his core. His people. His comfort zone. Essentially, they are both arguing the other wants to be together again. They tell me what the other wants. But really, they're telling me what they themselves long for. SLBY the boy has told me more than once this last few weeks that he can’t stand being alone. He’d grown used to the bustle—his wife, his son, his parents, all under one roof. They live in a mobile home, so sharing space really means sharing. Constantly. With his mom gone, dad out of town, wife at the chiropractor, and the boy at school, SLBY finds himself alone on a rock hurtling through space at sixty-seven thousand miles per hour. Working from home means his only company is the blinking cursor on a plastic display. He’s admitted, with surprising emotional honesty, that he cries often. This from a man who, just a few years ago, was all whiskey, beer, and bravado. Guns and guts. Today, the bottles are dusty and the guns live in a safe—a large one, granted—but they’re just objects now. SLBY has become the kind of man who can acknowledge his pain and grow through it. A shock, honestly. But a welcome one. His father, RLW, has also cracked open in ways I didn’t expect. Always the quiet, stoic one—he now speaks freely about how much his wife meant to him. That she was his light. His purpose. And being retired is salt on the wound. 10 years ago, he would at least have a job he had to contend with, coworkers and daily business to get back to. But now? His only obligations are those which he chooses. A full plate with his spiritual family, but that can be shelved much longer than it should be. Leaving him in self-inflicted isolation. Since her passing, he sleeps maybe four hours a night. He cries often. I imagine these moments are private—the kind where your ears roar, your eyes burn, and you fight to contain the flood so others don’t have to feel it too. Every time we’ve spoken since he hit the road, he’s mentioned that he can’t stop crying. Triggers are everywhere. A song. A vista in silence where she would have commented or asked to pull off and take a picture. The absence of agitation at his driving (the way he jerks the wheel in little increments). No one stuffing the door panel with trash. But mostly—silence. An imagination haunted by 16,425 sunrises and sunsets together... and all that is in between—the subtle golden rhythms of a life shared. Every small moment now echoing in absence. My God, how do you move on from that? Patience. Patience and tears. And prayer that God will intervene and part that ocean like he did for Moses. I told him as much. “It’s good you’re blind with tears. You probably need to really cut loose—and that’s hard to do with a seven-year-old always around, or your son who’s dealing with his own grief. I hope this trip gives you some catharsis. That it helps you begin to heal in earnest.” Grief is the price we pay for love. The greater the love, the higher the cost. Three thousand miles in four days. And tears, door to door. --- --- Luke 22:1-6 Now the Festival of the Unleavened Bread, which is called Passover, was getting near. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for an effective way to get rid of him, because they were afraid of the people. Then Satan entered into Judas, the one called Is·carʹi·ot, who was numbered among the Twelve, and he went off and talked with the chief priests and temple captains about how to betray him to them. They were delighted at this and agreed to give him silver money. So he consented and began looking for a good opportunity to betray him to them without a crowd around. Mark 14:1,2 Now the Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread was two days later. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to seize him by cunning and kill him; for they were saying: “Not at the festival; perhaps there might be an uproar of the people.” Mark 14:10,11 And Judas Is·carʹi·ot, one of the Twelve, went off to the chief priests in order to betray him to them. When they heard it, they were delighted and promised to give him silver money. So he began seeking an opportunity to betray him. --- #essay #travel #memoir #loss #death #biblereading #100DaysToOffload #Writing --- 2025-04-11 09:35:00 --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”
 — Thomas Campbell

You may recall my forlorn farewell to an old friend from a few days ago. DE lived in Dust Meridian for nearly 20 years. Before that, it was two decades in the South Pacific and another ten in Southern California. He’s a mature man in his mid-sixties, so it came as a surprise when he pulled up stakes, sold both of his homes, and headed to the other side of the country.

He says it’s for his wife’s health. The allergies here in Dust are brutal for many. On top of that, years ago, she suffered a stroke that left her speaking with what sounds like an Icelandic accent. Her heritage and native tongue are Peruvian. She went from sounding like a southern girl to something ethereal and ancient—almost elvish. Like someone installed an Old Norse filter on her voice.

I thought she was faking it at first, but it’s a real thing. Foreign Accent Syndrome. Rare, but real. The result of a traumatic brain injury that causes someone to suddenly start speaking with an accent from a region they’ve never even visited.

In her case, it even shows up in her writing. She spells things phonetically now, based on how she hears herself speak. It’s charming, honestly. But also a constant reminder of how fragile the brain is. That same stroke could’ve left her unable to communicate at all. That would’ve been a terror.

My own sister suffered a hypoxic brain injury—lost her short-term memory, and now struggles even with simple tasks. She’s aware of her limitations, which might be the cruelest part. It occasionally lends itself to moments of levity, but mostly, it’s just tragic.

As for DE, I don’t doubt his reasons—physical or mental. His wife or his own. From experience, I believe the lifestyle and mentality here in Dust Meridian takes a tole on anyone with sufficiently curious or robust intellect.

That sounds harsh. Like dummies thrive here. Apologies—I calls ’em like I sees ’em. There are many fine minds here, many dear souls. But there are also plenty of fantastically difficult situations. My own family not excluded.

So no, I don’t blame DE for the move. It’s exciting. I’m a little jealous, if I’m honest. Not that I’d pack up three trucks and drive 1,500 miles to West Potato—but the idea of a fresh start, a new landscape, is tempting. Then again, he’s lived in three other vastly different places. Why not make it four? He’s tapped all four compass points while he still can.

My brother-in-law, RLW, volunteered to be part of the cross-country convoy, hauling DE’s belongings to his new home. That’s significant because RLW is the same man who buried his wife—my wife’s sister—just sixty-nine days ago. A partner of 45 years, gone in an instant. Snuffed out like a candle in the rain.

When talk of the trip started, RLW had big plans. He’d trailer his motorcycle behind one of DE’s work trucks, help with the move, then spend a few days exploring West Potato. From there, he’d kit out the bike and ride west—through the Northwest, down to the Pacific. He talked of revisiting places he and his wife had seen, and discovering new ones. He didn’t say it aloud, but I suspect he meant to scatter some ashes along the way.

But as time wore on, the plans shrank. Late spring snow made the northern routes dicey. Then he nixed the coast. West Potato lies just beyond the Continental Divide, and soon enough, he cut out any idea of leaving the mountains at all. By the time he left two days ago, the month-long journey had been trimmed to a week.

A few hours ago, he texted that he’ll be back in Dust Meridian tomorrow night. Yep. Thirty days of freedom and healing, whittled down to just four.

There and back. Turn and burn.

His son, SLBY—the boy (a man in his thirties, forgive an aging Wolf)—tells me he thinks his dad just misses home. The quiet of the road was heavier than expected. That makes sense. My nephew wants his dad to get out and see new places, to build memories without her. A critical step in healing.

When I speak to RLW, he says it’s his son and grandson who are nudging him to come back. He can 'hear it in his voice' that if he was back, they would all be happier. Home is big and lonely and his son misses his family. Doesn't like being without his core. His people. His comfort zone.

Essentially, they are both arguing the other wants to be together again. They tell me what the other wants. But really, they're telling me what they themselves long for.

SLBY the boy has told me more than once this last few weeks that he can’t stand being alone. He’d grown used to the bustle—his wife, his son, his parents, all under one roof. They live in a mobile home, so sharing space really means sharing.

Constantly.

With his mom gone, dad out of town, wife at the chiropractor, and the boy at school, SLBY finds himself alone on a rock hurtling through space at sixty-seven thousand miles per hour. Working from home means his only company is the blinking cursor on a plastic display.

He’s admitted, with surprising emotional honesty, that he cries often. This from a man who, just a few years ago, was all whiskey, beer, and bravado. Guns and guts. Today, the bottles are dusty and the guns live in a safe—a large one, granted—but they’re just objects now.

SLBY has become the kind of man who can acknowledge his pain and grow through it. A shock, honestly. But a welcome one.

His father, RLW, has also cracked open in ways I didn’t expect. Always the quiet, stoic one—he now speaks freely about how much his wife meant to him. That she was his light. His purpose.

And being retired is salt on the wound. 10 years ago, he would at least have a job he had to contend with, coworkers and daily business to get back to. But now? His only obligations are those which he chooses. A full plate with his spiritual family, but that can be shelved much longer than it should be. Leaving him in self-inflicted isolation.

Since her passing, he sleeps maybe four hours a night. He cries often. I imagine these moments are private—the kind where your ears roar, your eyes burn, and you fight to contain the flood so others don’t have to feel it too.

Every time we’ve spoken since he hit the road, he’s mentioned that he can’t stop crying. Triggers are everywhere. A song. A vista in silence where she would have commented or asked to pull off and take a picture. The absence of agitation at his driving (the way he jerks the wheel in little increments). No one stuffing the door panel with trash.

But mostly—silence.

An imagination haunted by 16,425 sunrises and sunsets together... and all that is in between—the subtle golden rhythms of a life shared. Every small moment now echoing in absence.

My God, how do you move on from that?

Patience.

Patience and tears. And prayer that God will intervene and part that ocean like he did for Moses.

I told him as much. “It’s good you’re blind with tears. You probably need to really cut loose—and that’s hard to do with a seven-year-old always around, or your son who’s dealing with his own grief. I hope this trip gives you some catharsis. That it helps you begin to heal in earnest.”

Grief is the price we pay for love. The greater the love, the higher the cost.

Three thousand miles in four days. And tears, door to door.

Luke 22:1-6 Now the Festival of the Unleavened Bread, which is called Passover, was getting near. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for an effective way to get rid of him, because they were afraid of the people. Then Satan entered into Judas, the one called Is·carʹi·ot, who was numbered among the Twelve, and he went off and talked with the chief priests and temple captains about how to betray him to them. They were delighted at this and agreed to give him silver money. So he consented and began looking for a good opportunity to betray him to them without a crowd around.

Mark 14:1,2 Now the Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread was two days later. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to seize him by cunning and kill him; for they were saying: “Not at the festival; perhaps there might be an uproar of the people.”

Mark 14:10,11 And Judas Is·carʹi·ot, one of the Twelve, went off to the chief priests in order to betray him to them. When they heard it, they were delighted and promised to give him silver money. So he began seeking an opportunity to betray him.

#essay #travel #memoir #loss #death #biblereading #100DaysToOffload #Writing

2025-04-11 09:35:00

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/3000-miles-of-tears Fri, 07 Aug 2026 01:00:00 +0000 Writer's Paradox https://lanternroom.writeas.com/writers-paradox?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ !--more-- iframe width="200%" height="150" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2086496271&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/writers-paradox" title="Writers Paradox" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Writers Paradox/a/div --- Long poems are easy to write, hard to read. Short poems are easy to read, hard to write. Which is better Depends on which you are. Writer, or Reader. Lover, or Loved. --- #poetry #storytelling #write #100daystooffload --- Orig Pub: 2025-04-27 12:26:52 https://hypocritepoet.ghost.io/writers-paradox/ --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

Wolfinwool · Writers Paradox

Long poems are easy to write, hard to read.

Short poems are easy to read, hard to write.

Which is better Depends on which you are.

Writer, or Reader.

Lover, or Loved.

#poetry #storytelling #write #100daystooffload

Orig Pub: 2025-04-27 12:26:52

https://hypocritepoet.ghost.io/writers-paradox/

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/writers-paradox Fri, 07 Aug 2026 00:12:55 +0000 The Long Harvest https://lanternroom.writeas.com/the-long-harvest?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ After the fire and flood, the gardeners returned. !--more-- iframe width="200%" height="150" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2095567035&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/the-long-harvest" title="The Long Harvest" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"The Long Harvest/a/div The man wound the barbed wire into loops like garlands, careful not to let it bite. Even now with his sapshell gloves and the wire rust-dulled and its barbs curled inward with time, the metal vine still longed to rip hands as once had. The morning stretched open before him—gold on green, a weightless breeze, and nothing but the long road ahead. He’d been walking it for 29 years. Three decades of clearing the old wounds. And still, the wire came. The nasty old wire had been stranded over hundreds of thousands of miles over the course of the last few hundred years. And always laid out of fear and greed. Now it was being gathered by hearts filled with hope and trust. Men and women who savored the small joys in life and eschewed the concept of accumulation and acquisition. Their goal now was experience and collecting stories and smiles, giving love wherever they went. Since the old world ended, life had become more joyous, more pleasant. For a certainly, the man never worried about the mundane any longer. Food and safety had been in abundance since the crumbling of those old governments and the sweeping changes across the face of Aelora (what the new-worlders had renamed the planet). In short, the man's existence had become something to look forward to. Each day got better than the last. Most words and terms related to a person or things age had become misnomers. Fifty-seven years into this transformation, people had lost track of the years already. They were mostly focused on the simple joy of living. 'Old man' and 'Old Woman' became short hand for those who had lived in and known the former ways of living just before the 'sweep', what everyone called the destruction of that old way of life and it's systems and governments. Even though millions had tried to imagine what people would face at the end of the world, what it was really like still shocked everyone. There were surprising hardships and fears, but the faithful few anticipated the worst of it and by the grace of their God, they endured. Considered an old man, one of some few million to see the spires tumble and the cities burn would regale the 'newlings', those post-apocalypse additions, around the dinner table in the evenings from time to time, but his party had been together long enough that they had heard a lot of the old tales. Besides, they were busy making new stories with their lives. Soon after the end of all things, humans united under the direction of the Creator with a single purpose in mind: to restore their damaged home. Since the population had reduced so drastically in the sweep, a global congress was held with the reaming 6 million people and plans were put in place to start the global transformation into one united park-like home. The division of labor was massive. Six million is hardly enough to call a civilization much less reshape the globe, and with a planet the size of Aelora, it's less than a drop in the bucket. New births took time and those first children born were now well into adulthood and having children of their own. The real force of humanity came from those recovered from death, termed 'bloomed'. Those awaked from death quickly adjusted in the early days and the rate of bloomings was growing every month. It seemed slow at first, but in 54 years, humanity was close to reaching the one hundred million mark. Still a tiny fraction of what would be needed to change the face of the planet. The transformation was scheduled to follow a five-hundred year rough sketch for fundamentals and build on those accomplishments to truly make the world a masterpiece over an additional three to five mellenia. New understanding of weather patterns, moisture and the importance of biodiversity were all the foundation for what humans would set out to achieve. Gone were the ideas of monocultures and sameness. Instead, man would embrace the strengths in difference and enhance what had already been designed and put into place. The approach would be more akin to the art of bonsai than to construction. Humans no longer wished to force their interpretation of nature, but to embrace what was provided. The elimination of fiat systems and greed along with an abundance of freely available resources meant every hand wanted to pitch in for the work. No one was required to grind away at a single task indefinitely. In the old parlance, the effort would have been considered a 'generational' effort. The kind of thinking that said 'I will plant a tree whose shade my grandchildren will enjoy'. Only now, the planter, the grandchildren and their grandchildren could enjoy its fruits. Such was the benefit of ideal health and the elimination of death. Early in, the old man had worked a decade planting and coaxing the western deserts back to life. Hard efforts, but enjoyable. In fact, the most engaging work was not in those places man used to consider stunning or breathtaking, it was in the lands avoided and overlooked. The more abused and neglected, the better the assignment. The fastest changes occurred in the worst places. But he grew restless after a time, wishing to see more of the new world. So much had changed, not just the people, but the sweep came with massive geologic upheavals resulting in new continental borders and even new continents and many inland seas and lakes. It had all been mapped, but that just made it more intriguing. Especially for those old-timers who knew the world before. For the benefit of those who remembered how things were, there were special maps that overlaid the old geography with the new, helping them to stay grounded in something they knew while coming to know something they did not. Which is what brought him here, to this wide grassy prairie, spooling up the miles and miles of rusted, brittle barbed wire. It was a volunteer project that required constant travel. So it meant putting a hold on sinking roots and settling down. But the old man had had plenty of rootedness pre-sweep and not just a little of it post. Wire-gathering tended to attract the curious and those with a heart for adventure. He hungered to wander around and see what was out here with his own perfect eyes. He had just finished coiling a length of wire—a particularly nasty stretch used by soldiers and designed to harm and to last—when he heard the soft crunch of steps behind him. “You’re the Wirewalker?” asked a voice—young, lilting, curious. He turned to find a girl no older than twenty by appearance, though age had little meaning anymore. Her skin was wind-gold, her eyes the bright grey of storm-washed stones. She carried nothing but a small satchel and a flute tied with twine. “I walk the wire, yes,” he said, smiling gently. “Though some call me Calder. Or 'Hey you, watch your step.’” She smiled, a little shy. “I’ve heard stories. That you’ve walked across three continents and never once repeated a sunset.” “Well, they're smaller now, the continents, but that sounds like someone else. I’ve seen a few sunsets twice.” She smiled warmly at his modest honesty and asked, “I'm new in the world and want to strike out and help where I can. May I join your people?” Calder studied her face. She was brimming with eagerness—but under that was a hunger. The same sort that brought him to this path when she was still a young child. Not to do so much as a longing to know. To trace the old scars of the world with your hands and feet and feel them give way under time and kindness. “We would be happy to have you.” he said. “But you’ll need gloves. And a name. The gloves we can probably help with, but the name you'll have to handle yourself.” She hesitated. “They call me Lira. I haven’t chosen my true name yet.” It was hard to tell by looks who was a newling and who was old. People no longer aged like they used to. But a short conversation told you quickly. Concepts like choosing a 'true' name came with the new social structure. 20 or 30 years in, a person started to understand themselves enough to take a name in addition to they one their parents had given them. “Well, Lira-For-Now," he grinned back, "the road is long, but the company’s good. Grab the other end.” Together, they lifted another coil from the tall grass. Mice scurried away as they raised the awkward bundle. The morning sang around them—crickets like soft clocks, the wind humming along the wire, the smell of wild basil and warm dirt. Calder felt, not for the first time, that joy wasn’t in finishing a task, but in handing it forward. That night, the field glowed with a dozen small lights dangling from wagons, dim and inviting. Campfires like fallen stars, each one circled by laughter, hot meals and by the shimmer of voices rising in song. Calder sat cross-legged near one of the fires, a bowl of plum stew in his lap, bread still steaming on a leaf beside him. Lira sat nearby, humming quietly as she polished her flute. She had earned her place without ceremony—she laughed and labored as hardily as any of them, her back sweat-lined and sun-kissed. Around them, the night danced with fireflies. A boy with bright eyes and a shock of blond juggled glowing stones. A woman spun through the grass with her arms full of ribbons, laughter trailing behind her like a kite tail. Others clapped and sang an old working song, one Calder remembered from his early days coaxing green from dust that praised the Maker for the privilege of the work. The fire cast long shadows across the circle, and as the song ended, a hush took its place. Not silence—there was always the murmur of wind and ember—but a kind of group sigh of joy. Someone across the flames looked to Calder. “Tell us a story, Wirewalker.” A low chorus of agreement followed. He didn’t rush. He sipped from a cup, let the fire’s warmth stretch across his face. Then he leaned forward. “All right. But not one of the old-world stories. You’ve heard those. Tonight I’ll tell you about the owl and the fence.” Lira and the others leaned in, eyes bright. He smiled at the memory. “It was year four of the wirewalk. I was working mostly alone in those days. I was in the hill country—what used to be west Texas, before the reshaping. There was a stretch of fence so tangled it looked like a nest made by a mad god…” And as he spoke, the fire crackled and popped, while the group sat inhaling the night and the story. "Wire ran through the valleys and over hills like veins, buried in earth and wood. Some of it was so old the tree lines had grown through it, swallowed it whole, but it still cut. That’s the thing about old pain—it lingers even after it’s forgotten. I worked and tugged and gut for hours before I got that tangled stretch loose. Then I saw her. An owl—huge and white, with rust-colored rings around her eyes, like she'd seen centuries. She sat on a old crooked fence post. She didn’t fly away when I got close. Just stared, unblinking. I watched the owl, it watched me. I was looking for what she would tell me about the Creator. I'm not sure what she was seeing in me. That night, I camped near there. I dreamed of her. In the dream, she spoke—not with words, but with presence. I felt… watched over. Not judged. Just seen. The next morning, I went to take down that final stretch of fence—the one where she’d perched. It was the old stuff they called concertina, coiled and razor sharp even after decades of rot. I fought it, it fought back. I bled a little, not much but enough to give me pause. And I heard the owl again. Not in dream, but in the trees above me, real wings, real eyes. She landed near my satchel, then hopped over to the coil of wire I’d cut. She grabbed a strand with her beak and yanked it free flying away. I watched as she glided over to the edge of a ravine. Landing on the edge, she looked at me, turned her head and dropped the wire into the crevasse, looked back at me, took wing and disappeared. I walked to where the owl had been perched and peered down. That bird had been tellinrg me there was a den of foxes. Kits no bigger than my hands. That stretch of fence had been their shield from the wind and the coyotes. If I had taken it all, they would’ve died exposed. So I left a piece behind. That was the first time I realized—not all fences were meant to come down. Many were wounds, yes. But some had been repurposed by time into shelter, into homes for fur and feather. Even wire can turn to grace if you give it long enough.” Calder sat back, letting the words settle. The fire popped, and the wind moved like a slow breath through the tall grass. Someone whispered, “What happened to the owl?” Calder looked into the flames. “I never saw her again. I did find a feather in my tent the next morning. I've carried it with me since. It's not magic. But when things get tangled, when I don’t know what to pull or what to leave, I touch it. Reminds me to look at the bigger picture. To be objective about our goal.” This answered the question why Calder would walk off in the distance and watch the team. He was listening to the wind and looking for scars that had become not a danger, but a home. --- People always came. Sometimes they were residents of an area, others they were adventurous souls looking to make new stories. People left. For family, for new interests, for all kinds of reasons. Sometimes they left to go wire walk on their own in new places they'd heard needed the effort. But they started coming in greater numbers from all directions. Not in a rush, not like pilgrims chasing salvation—but like seeds on the wind, guided by stories. The tale of Calder and his thirty-year walk had spread quietly through the people of Aelora. It wasn’t shouted or broadcast; there were no posters or announcements. Just stories passed from voice to voice, in gardens and starlit kitchens, in the quiet hush of learning halls, and around other campfires where feet were tired and hands were raw from the day's honest labor. Calder started to feel his time here as wire walker was perhaps starting to come to a close. This w as challenging feeling for him. He did not want to abandon the work. And there was so much work left to do. Hardly a person was left from the team he'd known even five years ago. All new faces and new thoughts. There was a particularly efficient group of four that Calder felt, maybe, just maybe they cold carry on the work without him. The New Circle—that’s what they called themselves. They weren’t appointed. They chose each other by instinct. At the center was a young woman named Mira, barely sixty, but already steeped in the arts of land-listening—a discipline that required stillness and intuition more than talk. Where Calder cleared the wire, Mira listened for where it had once grown roots. She could walk a field and feel the ghosts of boundaries long since buried. She had heard Calder speak once, years ago, and never forgot it. Not the words so much as the weight behind them. He made the past feel like a garden gone wild, not something to burn down, but to prune and nurture. Mira wasn’t alone. There was Thom, with arms like tree trunks and a voice like a cracked bell. He sang as he worked, old ballads and newer ones made from scraps of Calder’s tales. He had a knack for lifting the heaviest pieces of scrap with a gentleness that felt like prayer. Lale, the twin-hearted recorder and historian, traveled with them too. She marked the lands they passed, not just for what was removed but for what was revealed—old stones carved with names, bits of bent metal grown mossy with time, relics that told of boundary and belonging. And there was Juno, the silent one. No one knew quite why he’d joined. He never said much, but he moved with a purpose that made space for others. He was the first to spot owl feathers on the trail. The first to pause before pulling wire that seemed... unready. Together, they didn’t mimic Calder—they echoed him, in new keys. Their mission wasn’t to follow in his footsteps, but to branch out where he hadn’t yet walked. They moved toward the wetlands, where rust had sunken deep into soft soil, and the wire whispered with half-buried history. One day, as they circled a fire much like Calder’s, Mira held out a map—not printed, but painted on silk, small flowers painted places they thought they might do the most good. It was covered in circles. Concentric ones. Intersecting ones. “We’re not the only ones anymore,” she said quietly.
 “There are others. Everywhere. Little clusters of listeners and lifters, untanglers and wanderers. Calder lit the path. But we—we’re building the constellation.” By the time Calder met the New Circle, he had stopped measuring time in years. He marked his days instead by how the land changed—places with mighty trees that had once been barren, where wildflowers returned, where birds nested without fear, where the earth no longer remembered pain. He met Mira on the edge of an estuary, her boots half-buried in brackish sand, eyes scanning the horizon not for danger, but for meaning. They spoke little at first. Just smiles, nods, hands offered to help with a heavy spool. Later that night, the fires flickered in harmony—his group and hers, the old and the new, eating together under a moon so full and silver it made the night electric. Someone played a reed flute. Someone else carved a circle in the dirt with a stick, absentmindedly. A symbol, unspoken. Calder looked around. Dozens now, maybe hundreds, had taken up the work. The wire was being unwound from the bones of the world—not just removed, but honored—its rust no longer poison, but memory. They melted it down, turned it into sculpture, plows, and garden gates. The past had not been forgotten. It had been reclaimed. Mira asked him what he would do next.
 He smiled. “There’s always more to clear. But I think it’s time I started planting again.” And so he did. With younger hands beside his, and laughter in the wind. He carried no tools now but a spade and a flute, and sometimes he would stop at the edge of a newly unburdened hill, plant a tree, and hum a tune no one remembered teaching him. Across Aelora, the last remnants of division turned to myth. The only remaining parts were fragments in museums that in time would turn to dust themselves. The scars of the old world faded like the creases in Calder’s once-calloused palms. Peace was no longer a hope, but a habit. The world did not end.
 It unfolded. --- #shortstory #reading #story #newworld #100DaysToOffload #Writing --- a href="https://remark.as/p/lanternroom/the-long-harvest"Discuss.../a --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

After the fire and flood, the gardeners returned.

Wolfinwool · The Long Harvest

The man wound the barbed wire into loops like garlands, careful not to let it bite. Even now with his sapshell gloves and the wire rust-dulled and its barbs curled inward with time, the metal vine still longed to rip hands as once had. The morning stretched open before him—gold on green, a weightless breeze, and nothing but the long road ahead. He’d been walking it for 29 years. Three decades of clearing the old wounds. And still, the wire came.

The nasty old wire had been stranded over hundreds of thousands of miles over the course of the last few hundred years. And always laid out of fear and greed. Now it was being gathered by hearts filled with hope and trust. Men and women who savored the small joys in life and eschewed the concept of accumulation and acquisition. Their goal now was experience and collecting stories and smiles, giving love wherever they went.

Since the old world ended, life had become more joyous, more pleasant. For a certainly, the man never worried about the mundane any longer. Food and safety had been in abundance since the crumbling of those old governments and the sweeping changes across the face of Aelora (what the new-worlders had renamed the planet). In short, the man's existence had become something to look forward to. Each day got better than the last.

Most words and terms related to a person or things age had become misnomers. Fifty-seven years into this transformation, people had lost track of the years already. They were mostly focused on the simple joy of living. 'Old man' and 'Old Woman' became short hand for those who had lived in and known the former ways of living just before the 'sweep', what everyone called the destruction of that old way of life and it's systems and governments.

Even though millions had tried to imagine what people would face at the end of the world, what it was really like still shocked everyone. There were surprising hardships and fears, but the faithful few anticipated the worst of it and by the grace of their God, they endured.

Considered an old man, one of some few million to see the spires tumble and the cities burn would regale the 'newlings', those post-apocalypse additions, around the dinner table in the evenings from time to time, but his party had been together long enough that they had heard a lot of the old tales. Besides, they were busy making new stories with their lives.

Soon after the end of all things, humans united under the direction of the Creator with a single purpose in mind: to restore their damaged home. Since the population had reduced so drastically in the sweep, a global congress was held with the reaming 6 million people and plans were put in place to start the global transformation into one united park-like home.

The division of labor was massive. Six million is hardly enough to call a civilization much less reshape the globe, and with a planet the size of Aelora, it's less than a drop in the bucket. New births took time and those first children born were now well into adulthood and having children of their own.

The real force of humanity came from those recovered from death, termed 'bloomed'. Those awaked from death quickly adjusted in the early days and the rate of bloomings was growing every month. It seemed slow at first, but in 54 years, humanity was close to reaching the one hundred million mark. Still a tiny fraction of what would be needed to change the face of the planet.

The transformation was scheduled to follow a five-hundred year rough sketch for fundamentals and build on those accomplishments to truly make the world a masterpiece over an additional three to five mellenia. New understanding of weather patterns, moisture and the importance of biodiversity were all the foundation for what humans would set out to achieve. Gone were the ideas of monocultures and sameness. Instead, man would embrace the strengths in difference and enhance what had already been designed and put into place.

The approach would be more akin to the art of bonsai than to construction. Humans no longer wished to force their interpretation of nature, but to embrace what was provided. The elimination of fiat systems and greed along with an abundance of freely available resources meant every hand wanted to pitch in for the work. No one was required to grind away at a single task indefinitely. In the old parlance, the effort would have been considered a 'generational' effort. The kind of thinking that said 'I will plant a tree whose shade my grandchildren will enjoy'. Only now, the planter, the grandchildren and their grandchildren could enjoy its fruits.

Such was the benefit of ideal health and the elimination of death.

Early in, the old man had worked a decade planting and coaxing the western deserts back to life. Hard efforts, but enjoyable. In fact, the most engaging work was not in those places man used to consider stunning or breathtaking, it was in the lands avoided and overlooked. The more abused and neglected, the better the assignment. The fastest changes occurred in the worst places.

But he grew restless after a time, wishing to see more of the new world. So much had changed, not just the people, but the sweep came with massive geologic upheavals resulting in new continental borders and even new continents and many inland seas and lakes.

It had all been mapped, but that just made it more intriguing. Especially for those old-timers who knew the world before. For the benefit of those who remembered how things were, there were special maps that overlaid the old geography with the new, helping them to stay grounded in something they knew while coming to know something they did not.

Which is what brought him here, to this wide grassy prairie, spooling up the miles and miles of rusted, brittle barbed wire. It was a volunteer project that required constant travel. So it meant putting a hold on sinking roots and settling down. But the old man had had plenty of rootedness pre-sweep and not just a little of it post. Wire-gathering tended to attract the curious and those with a heart for adventure. He hungered to wander around and see what was out here with his own perfect eyes.

He had just finished coiling a length of wire—a particularly nasty stretch used by soldiers and designed to harm and to last—when he heard the soft crunch of steps behind him.

“You’re the Wirewalker?” asked a voice—young, lilting, curious. He turned to find a girl no older than twenty by appearance, though age had little meaning anymore. Her skin was wind-gold, her eyes the bright grey of storm-washed stones. She carried nothing but a small satchel and a flute tied with twine.

“I walk the wire, yes,” he said, smiling gently. “Though some call me Calder. Or 'Hey you, watch your step.’”

She smiled, a little shy. “I’ve heard stories. That you’ve walked across three continents and never once repeated a sunset.”

“Well, they're smaller now, the continents, but that sounds like someone else. I’ve seen a few sunsets twice.”

She smiled warmly at his modest honesty and asked, “I'm new in the world and want to strike out and help where I can. May I join your people?”

Calder studied her face. She was brimming with eagerness—but under that was a hunger. The same sort that brought him to this path when she was still a young child. Not to do so much as a longing to know. To trace the old scars of the world with your hands and feet and feel them give way under time and kindness.

“We would be happy to have you.” he said. “But you’ll need gloves. And a name. The gloves we can probably help with, but the name you'll have to handle yourself.”

She hesitated. “They call me Lira. I haven’t chosen my true name yet.”

It was hard to tell by looks who was a newling and who was old. People no longer aged like they used to. But a short conversation told you quickly. Concepts like choosing a 'true' name came with the new social structure. 20 or 30 years in, a person started to understand themselves enough to take a name in addition to they one their parents had given them.

“Well, Lira-For-Now,” he grinned back, “the road is long, but the company’s good. Grab the other end.”

Together, they lifted another coil from the tall grass. Mice scurried away as they raised the awkward bundle. The morning sang around them—crickets like soft clocks, the wind humming along the wire, the smell of wild basil and warm dirt. Calder felt, not for the first time, that joy wasn’t in finishing a task, but in handing it forward.

That night, the field glowed with a dozen small lights dangling from wagons, dim and inviting. Campfires like fallen stars, each one circled by laughter, hot meals and by the shimmer of voices rising in song.

Calder sat cross-legged near one of the fires, a bowl of plum stew in his lap, bread still steaming on a leaf beside him. Lira sat nearby, humming quietly as she polished her flute. She had earned her place without ceremony—she laughed and labored as hardily as any of them, her back sweat-lined and sun-kissed.

Around them, the night danced with fireflies.

A boy with bright eyes and a shock of blond juggled glowing stones. A woman spun through the grass with her arms full of ribbons, laughter trailing behind her like a kite tail. Others clapped and sang an old working song, one Calder remembered from his early days coaxing green from dust that praised the Maker for the privilege of the work.

The fire cast long shadows across the circle, and as the song ended, a hush took its place. Not silence—there was always the murmur of wind and ember—but a kind of group sigh of joy.

Someone across the flames looked to Calder.

“Tell us a story, Wirewalker.”

A low chorus of agreement followed.

He didn’t rush. He sipped from a cup, let the fire’s warmth stretch across his face. Then he leaned forward.

“All right. But not one of the old-world stories. You’ve heard those. Tonight I’ll tell you about the owl and the fence.”

Lira and the others leaned in, eyes bright.

He smiled at the memory. “It was year four of the wirewalk. I was working mostly alone in those days. I was in the hill country—what used to be west Texas, before the reshaping. There was a stretch of fence so tangled it looked like a nest made by a mad god…”

And as he spoke, the fire crackled and popped, while the group sat inhaling the night and the story.

“Wire ran through the valleys and over hills like veins, buried in earth and wood. Some of it was so old the tree lines had grown through it, swallowed it whole, but it still cut. That’s the thing about old pain—it lingers even after it’s forgotten.

I worked and tugged and gut for hours before I got that tangled stretch loose. Then I saw her. An owl—huge and white, with rust-colored rings around her eyes, like she'd seen centuries. She sat on a old crooked fence post.

She didn’t fly away when I got close. Just stared, unblinking. I watched the owl, it watched me. I was looking for what she would tell me about the Creator. I'm not sure what she was seeing in me.

That night, I camped near there. I dreamed of her. In the dream, she spoke—not with words, but with presence. I felt… watched over. Not judged. Just seen.

The next morning, I went to take down that final stretch of fence—the one where she’d perched. It was the old stuff they called concertina, coiled and razor sharp even after decades of rot. I fought it, it fought back. I bled a little, not much but enough to give me pause.

And I heard the owl again. Not in dream, but in the trees above me, real wings, real eyes. She landed near my satchel, then hopped over to the coil of wire I’d cut. She grabbed a strand with her beak and yanked it free flying away.

I watched as she glided over to the edge of a ravine. Landing on the edge, she looked at me, turned her head and dropped the wire into the crevasse, looked back at me, took wing and disappeared.

I walked to where the owl had been perched and peered down. That bird had been tellinrg me there was a den of foxes. Kits no bigger than my hands. That stretch of fence had been their shield from the wind and the coyotes. If I had taken it all, they would’ve died exposed. So I left a piece behind.

That was the first time I realized—not all fences were meant to come down. Many were wounds, yes. But some had been repurposed by time into shelter, into homes for fur and feather. Even wire can turn to grace if you give it long enough.”

Calder sat back, letting the words settle.

The fire popped, and the wind moved like a slow breath through the tall grass.

Someone whispered, “What happened to the owl?”

Calder looked into the flames.

“I never saw her again. I did find a feather in my tent the next morning. I've carried it with me since. It's not magic. But when things get tangled, when I don’t know what to pull or what to leave, I touch it.

Reminds me to look at the bigger picture. To be objective about our goal.”

This answered the question why Calder would walk off in the distance and watch the team. He was listening to the wind and looking for scars that had become not a danger, but a home.

People always came. Sometimes they were residents of an area, others they were adventurous souls looking to make new stories. People left. For family, for new interests, for all kinds of reasons. Sometimes they left to go wire walk on their own in new places they'd heard needed the effort.

But they started coming in greater numbers from all directions. Not in a rush, not like pilgrims chasing salvation—but like seeds on the wind, guided by stories.

The tale of Calder and his thirty-year walk had spread quietly through the people of Aelora. It wasn’t shouted or broadcast; there were no posters or announcements. Just stories passed from voice to voice, in gardens and starlit kitchens, in the quiet hush of learning halls, and around other campfires where feet were tired and hands were raw from the day's honest labor.

Calder started to feel his time here as wire walker was perhaps starting to come to a close. This w as challenging feeling for him. He did not want to abandon the work. And there was so much work left to do.

Hardly a person was left from the team he'd known even five years ago. All new faces and new thoughts. There was a particularly efficient group of four that Calder felt, maybe, just maybe they cold carry on the work without him. The New Circle—that’s what they called themselves. They weren’t appointed. They chose each other by instinct.

At the center was a young woman named Mira, barely sixty, but already steeped in the arts of land-listening—a discipline that required stillness and intuition more than talk. Where Calder cleared the wire, Mira listened for where it had once grown roots. She could walk a field and feel the ghosts of boundaries long since buried.

She had heard Calder speak once, years ago, and never forgot it. Not the words so much as the weight behind them. He made the past feel like a garden gone wild, not something to burn down, but to prune and nurture.

Mira wasn’t alone.

There was Thom, with arms like tree trunks and a voice like a cracked bell. He sang as he worked, old ballads and newer ones made from scraps of Calder’s tales. He had a knack for lifting the heaviest pieces of scrap with a gentleness that felt like prayer.

Lale, the twin-hearted recorder and historian, traveled with them too. She marked the lands they passed, not just for what was removed but for what was revealed—old stones carved with names, bits of bent metal grown mossy with time, relics that told of boundary and belonging.

And there was Juno, the silent one. No one knew quite why he’d joined. He never said much, but he moved with a purpose that made space for others. He was the first to spot owl feathers on the trail. The first to pause before pulling wire that seemed... unready.

Together, they didn’t mimic Calder—they echoed him, in new keys.

Their mission wasn’t to follow in his footsteps, but to branch out where he hadn’t yet walked. They moved toward the wetlands, where rust had sunken deep into soft soil, and the wire whispered with half-buried history.

One day, as they circled a fire much like Calder’s, Mira held out a map—not printed, but painted on silk, small flowers painted places they thought they might do the most good.

It was covered in circles. Concentric ones. Intersecting ones. “We’re not the only ones anymore,” she said quietly.
 “There are others. Everywhere. Little clusters of listeners and lifters, untanglers and wanderers. Calder lit the path. But we—we’re building the constellation.”

By the time Calder met the New Circle, he had stopped measuring time in years. He marked his days instead by how the land changed—places with mighty trees that had once been barren, where wildflowers returned, where birds nested without fear, where the earth no longer remembered pain.

He met Mira on the edge of an estuary, her boots half-buried in brackish sand, eyes scanning the horizon not for danger, but for meaning. They spoke little at first. Just smiles, nods, hands offered to help with a heavy spool.

Later that night, the fires flickered in harmony—his group and hers, the old and the new, eating together under a moon so full and silver it made the night electric. Someone played a reed flute. Someone else carved a circle in the dirt with a stick, absentmindedly. A symbol, unspoken.

Calder looked around. Dozens now, maybe hundreds, had taken up the work. The wire was being unwound from the bones of the world—not just removed, but honored—its rust no longer poison, but memory. They melted it down, turned it into sculpture, plows, and garden gates.

The past had not been forgotten. It had been reclaimed.

Mira asked him what he would do next.
 He smiled.

“There’s always more to clear. But I think it’s time I started planting again.”

And so he did. With younger hands beside his, and laughter in the wind. He carried no tools now but a spade and a flute, and sometimes he would stop at the edge of a newly unburdened hill, plant a tree, and hum a tune no one remembered teaching him.

Across Aelora, the last remnants of division turned to myth. The only remaining parts were fragments in museums that in time would turn to dust themselves. The scars of the old world faded like the creases in Calder’s once-calloused palms.

Peace was no longer a hope, but a habit.

The world did not end.


It unfolded.

#shortstory #reading #story #newworld #100DaysToOffload #Writing

Discuss...

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/the-long-harvest Wed, 14 May 2025 21:00:00 +0000 Proverbs 11 https://lanternroom.writeas.com/proverbs-11?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ !--more-- iframe width="200%" height="150" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2086876704&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/proverbs-11" title="Proverbs 11" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Proverbs 11/a/div Dishonest scales are detestable to Jehovah, But an accurate weight brings pleasure to him. 2 When presumptuousness comes, dishonor will follow, But wisdom is with the modest ones. 3 The integrity of the upright is what guides them, But the deviousness of the treacherous will destroy them. 4 Wealth will be of no benefit on the day of fury, But righteousness is what will rescue from death. 5 The righteousness of the blameless one makes his path straight, But the wicked one will fall because of his own wickedness. 6 The righteousness of the upright will rescue them, But the treacherous will be caught by their own desires. 7 When a wicked man dies, his hope perishes; And expectations based on his power also perish. 8 The righteous one is rescued from distress, And the wicked one takes his place. 9 By his mouth the apostate brings his neighbor to ruin, But by knowledge the righteous are rescued. 10 The goodness of the righteous makes a city rejoice, And when the wicked perish, there is a joyful cry. 11 Because of the blessing of the upright a city is exalted, But the mouth of the wicked tears it down. 12 Whoever is lacking good sense shows contempt for his neighbor, But the man of true discernment remains silent. 13 A slanderer goes about revealing confidential talk, But the trustworthy person keeps a confidence. 14 When there is no skillful direction, the people fall, But there is success through many advisers. 15 Whoever guarantees a loan for a stranger is sure to fare badly, But whoever avoids shaking hands in a pledge will be secure. 16 A gracious woman acquires glory, But ruthless men seize riches. 17 A kind man benefits himself, But the cruel person brings trouble on himself. 18 The wicked one earns deceptive wages, But the one who sows righteousness receives a true reward. 19 The one standing firmly for righteousness is in line for life, But the one chasing after evil is in line for death. 20 Those crooked at heart are detestable to Jehovah, But those whose way is blameless bring pleasure to him. 21 Be assured of this: An evil person will not go unpunished, But the children of the righteous will escape. 22 Like a gold ring in the snout of a pig Is a beautiful woman who rejects good sense. 23 The desire of the righteous leads to good, But what the wicked hope for leads to fury. 24 One gives generously and ends up with more; Another withholds what should be given, but he comes to poverty. 25 The generous person will prosper, And whoever refreshes others will himself be refreshed. 26 The people will curse the one who withholds grain, But they will bless the one who sells it. 27 The one who diligently seeks to do good seeks favor, But the one searching for bad—that is what will surely come upon him. 28 The one trusting in his riches will fall, But the righteous will flourish like the foliage. 29 Anyone who brings trouble on his household will inherit the wind, And the fool will be a servant to the wisehearted one. 30 The fruitage of the righteous one is a tree of life, And the one who wins souls is wise. 31 If, indeed, the righteous one on earth is rewarded, How much more the wicked one and the sinner! --- #write #100daystooffload #biblereading --- --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

Wolfinwool · Proverbs 11

Dishonest scales are detestable to Jehovah, But an accurate weight brings pleasure to him.

2 When presumptuousness comes, dishonor will follow, But wisdom is with the modest ones.

3 The integrity of the upright is what guides them, But the deviousness of the treacherous will destroy them.

4 Wealth will be of no benefit on the day of fury, But righteousness is what will rescue from death.

5 The righteousness of the blameless one makes his path straight, But the wicked one will fall because of his own wickedness.

6 The righteousness of the upright will rescue them, But the treacherous will be caught by their own desires.

7 When a wicked man dies, his hope perishes; And expectations based on his power also perish.

8 The righteous one is rescued from distress, And the wicked one takes his place.

9 By his mouth the apostate brings his neighbor to ruin, But by knowledge the righteous are rescued.

10 The goodness of the righteous makes a city rejoice, And when the wicked perish, there is a joyful cry.

11 Because of the blessing of the upright a city is exalted, But the mouth of the wicked tears it down.

12 Whoever is lacking good sense shows contempt for his neighbor, But the man of true discernment remains silent.

13 A slanderer goes about revealing confidential talk, But the trustworthy person keeps a confidence.

14 When there is no skillful direction, the people fall, But there is success through many advisers.

15 Whoever guarantees a loan for a stranger is sure to fare badly, But whoever avoids shaking hands in a pledge will be secure.

16 A gracious woman acquires glory, But ruthless men seize riches.

17 A kind man benefits himself, But the cruel person brings trouble on himself.

18 The wicked one earns deceptive wages, But the one who sows righteousness receives a true reward.

19 The one standing firmly for righteousness is in line for life, But the one chasing after evil is in line for death.

20 Those crooked at heart are detestable to Jehovah, But those whose way is blameless bring pleasure to him.

21 Be assured of this: An evil person will not go unpunished, But the children of the righteous will escape.

22 Like a gold ring in the snout of a pig Is a beautiful woman who rejects good sense.

23 The desire of the righteous leads to good, But what the wicked hope for leads to fury.

24 One gives generously and ends up with more; Another withholds what should be given, but he comes to poverty.

25 The generous person will prosper, And whoever refreshes others will himself be refreshed.

26 The people will curse the one who withholds grain, But they will bless the one who sells it.

27 The one who diligently seeks to do good seeks favor, But the one searching for bad—that is what will surely come upon him.

28 The one trusting in his riches will fall, But the righteous will flourish like the foliage.

29 Anyone who brings trouble on his household will inherit the wind, And the fool will be a servant to the wisehearted one.

30 The fruitage of the righteous one is a tree of life, And the one who wins souls is wise.

31 If, indeed, the righteous one on earth is rewarded, How much more the wicked one and the sinner!

#write #100daystooffload #biblereading

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]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/proverbs-11 Tue, 29 Apr 2025 01:45:00 +0000 The Place Where We Are Right https://lanternroom.writeas.com/the-place-where-we-are-right?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ Written by Yehuda Amichai; translated by Stephen Mitchell !--more-- iframe width="200%" height="150" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2086619046&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/where-we-are-right" title="Where We Are Right" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Where We Are Right/a/div From the place where we are right flowers will never grow in the spring. The place where we are right is hard and trampled like a yard. But doubts and loves dig up the world like a mole, a plow. And a whisper will be heard in the place where the ruined house once stood. --- I really like this poem. I've thought about it a lot the last few days. As a person who tends to think in rights and wrongs, it's easy when you know what's right and you're doing it to stand hard and fast, to trample down the potential for growth and for love and for happiness, turn it into the hard red clay soil of North Texas. But I love how Amichai points that out, that being right is fine and good, but goodness, I think, is a superior way to go. That's where the doubts and loves come in, that dig up the world like those moles, like plowing through, breaking up the hard ground, giving the chance for life to grow, for happiness to thrive. So, it's less about asserting who's right and wrong and drawing those lines, and more about embracing people and encouraging them to thrive and to grow. That's when the whisper starts, little seedling blossoms in the broken ground. And the thing that was trampled down, the ruined house, it's brought back to life, small, delicate. And when tended to with kindness can blossom. And what was once a meadow full of energy and good can become that again. But we have to be careful about stomping too hard from our place of right. --- #100DaysToOffload #Writing #poetry --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

Written by Yehuda Amichai; translated by Stephen Mitchell

Wolfinwool · Where We Are Right

From the place where we are right flowers will never grow in the spring.

The place where we are right is hard and trampled like a yard.

But doubts and loves dig up the world like a mole, a plow. And a whisper will be heard in the place where the ruined house once stood.

I really like this poem. I've thought about it a lot the last few days.

As a person who tends to think in rights and wrongs, it's easy when you know what's right and you're doing it to stand hard and fast, to trample down the potential for growth and for love and for happiness, turn it into the hard red clay soil of North Texas.

But I love how Amichai points that out, that being right is fine and good, but goodness, I think, is a superior way to go. That's where the doubts and loves come in, that dig up the world like those moles, like plowing through, breaking up the hard ground, giving the chance for life to grow, for happiness to thrive. So, it's less about asserting who's right and wrong and drawing those lines, and more about embracing people and encouraging them to thrive and to grow.

That's when the whisper starts, little seedling blossoms in the broken ground.

And the thing that was trampled down, the ruined house, it's brought back to life, small, delicate. And when tended to with kindness can blossom. And what was once a meadow full of energy and good can become that again.

But we have to be careful about stomping too hard from our place of right.

#100DaysToOffload #Writing #poetry

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/the-place-where-we-are-right Mon, 28 Apr 2025 15:10:17 +0000 Tessellations https://lanternroom.writeas.com/tessellations?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ Look! These are just the fringes of his ways; Only a faint whisper has been heard of him! !--more-- iframe width="200%" height="150" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2086544292&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/tesselations" title="Tesselations" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Tesselations/a/div Last night, as we crossed the threshold of dusk, a thunderhead rose— thirty thousand feet of sky-clad majesty, a colossus of cloud and light. So vast, its motion looked still. It waited. A sentinel of vapor, crowned in flashes of unseen fire, looming above our journey like a god unspoken. The world bent beneath its gaze— mountains bowed, cities dimmed, our destination cowered in its shadow. Weight—more than all elephants ever conceived by earth— a Kilimanjaro of pachyderms, silent and unshakeable. And yet, this was merely an afterthought— a side-glance of the Maker, Jehovah, whose breath begets fractals, whose fingers write tessellations in lightning and chemistry, in the tongue of physics and fire. Who are we— dustlings in chariots of steel— that He should remember us? --- #poetry #travel #storytelling #write #100daystooffload --- a href="https://remark.as/p/lanternroom/tessellations"Discuss.../a --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

Look! These are just the fringes of his ways; Only a faint whisper has been heard of him!

Wolfinwool · Tesselations

Last night, as we crossed the threshold of dusk, a thunderhead rose— thirty thousand feet of sky-clad majesty, a colossus of cloud and light.

So vast, its motion looked still. It waited. A sentinel of vapor, crowned in flashes of unseen fire, looming above our journey like a god unspoken.

The world bent beneath its gaze— mountains bowed, cities dimmed, our destination cowered in its shadow.

Weight—more than all elephants ever conceived by earth— a Kilimanjaro of pachyderms, silent and unshakeable.

And yet, this was merely an afterthought— a side-glance of the Maker, Jehovah, whose breath begets fractals, whose fingers write tessellations in lightning and chemistry, in the tongue of physics and fire.

Who are we— dustlings in chariots of steel— that He should remember us?

#poetry #travel #storytelling #write #100daystooffload

Discuss...

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/tessellations Fri, 25 Apr 2025 11:41:49 +0000 Most Sacred Night https://lanternroom.writeas.com/most-sacred-night?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ Time to reflect, respect and recover. !--more-- iframe width="200%" height="150" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2077673456&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/most-sacred-night" title="Most Sacred Night" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Most Sacred Night/a/div 250412 Tonight holds special meaning. Once a year, my people gather to remember the death of a dear friend long ago. It’s always a sacred event, and it pleases me deeply to see how many go to great lengths to be here. There have been a lot of deaths for my family lately, but remembering this one has the opposite effect. It's invigorating. Inspiring. One friend who can no longer walk, has donned her finest dress and hat. Bright green and shiny. A small green bow tied to the handle of her wheelchair is a testament to how hard she worked to put it all together. Another has chosen to wear a tuxedo tonight. An unusual choice, but I can tell he feels so fine in his armor. The power of clothes. I see a lot of faces tonight that have been missing from my life for a while. It fills me with warmth. A few, I have avoided, but I am glad they are here nonetheless. This isn't a party for me and respect and love dictate welcoming everyone. My wife and I manage to visit two gatherings tonight. One early one for my Spanish-speaking family and a later event for English. We have not done this before but with my wife's mother as a fresh widow, we don't want her to be alone... well, without family by her side. She can hardly be alone with 170 of her friends in one place. There is a dynamism to the Spanish people. English crowds can manifest this too... but in general, there is a quiet subdued nature to the English. It likely boils down to the language and my poor mastery (loosely used) of it. I do pick up a few new words tonight: cordera: lamb; rescate: ransom; sangre: blood. It is hard because native speakers have no mercy for the poor student. What a delight to be united with my friends. Not just here, but all over the world. There are particularly special minds and hearts that I think of through the evening. My love transcends time and space and I pray they can feel my energy divided for them. Certainly we all feel the presence of the one for whom we are gathered to honor. What a night. It is a recovery in a way. And an introduction to healing and reclamation. The sacred lingers. And tomorrow, we carry it forward — a little lighter, a little more whole. --- #essay #spritual #biblereading #memoir #redemptionarc #100DaysToOffload #Writing --- Luke 22:66-71 And when it became day, the assembly of elders of the people, both chief priests and scribes, gathered together, and they led him into their Sanʹhe·drin hall and said: 67 “If you are the Christ, tell us.” But he said to them: “Even if I told you, you would not believe it at all. 68 Moreover, if I questioned you, you would not answer.6 9 However, from now on the Son of man will be seated at the powerful right hand of God.” 70 At this they all said: “Are you, therefore, the Son of God?” He said to them: “You yourselves are saying that I am.” 71 They said: “Why do we need further testimony? For we ourselves have heard it out of his own mouth.” --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

Time to reflect, respect and recover.

Wolfinwool · Most Sacred Night

250412

Tonight holds special meaning.

Once a year, my people gather to remember the death of a dear friend long ago. It’s always a sacred event, and it pleases me deeply to see how many go to great lengths to be here.

There have been a lot of deaths for my family lately, but remembering this one has the opposite effect. It's invigorating. Inspiring.

One friend who can no longer walk, has donned her finest dress and hat. Bright green and shiny. A small green bow tied to the handle of her wheelchair is a testament to how hard she worked to put it all together.

Another has chosen to wear a tuxedo tonight. An unusual choice, but I can tell he feels so fine in his armor. The power of clothes.

I see a lot of faces tonight that have been missing from my life for a while. It fills me with warmth. A few, I have avoided, but I am glad they are here nonetheless. This isn't a party for me and respect and love dictate welcoming everyone.

My wife and I manage to visit two gatherings tonight. One early one for my Spanish-speaking family and a later event for English. We have not done this before but with my wife's mother as a fresh widow, we don't want her to be alone... well, without family by her side. She can hardly be alone with 170 of her friends in one place.

There is a dynamism to the Spanish people. English crowds can manifest this too... but in general, there is a quiet subdued nature to the English. It likely boils down to the language and my poor mastery (loosely used) of it.

I do pick up a few new words tonight: cordera: lamb; rescate: ransom; sangre: blood. It is hard because native speakers have no mercy for the poor student.

What a delight to be united with my friends. Not just here, but all over the world. There are particularly special minds and hearts that I think of through the evening. My love transcends time and space and I pray they can feel my energy divided for them. Certainly we all feel the presence of the one for whom we are gathered to honor.

What a night. It is a recovery in a way. And an introduction to healing and reclamation.

The sacred lingers. And tomorrow, we carry it forward — a little lighter, a little more whole.

#essay #spritual #biblereading #memoir #redemptionarc #100DaysToOffload #Writing

Luke 22:66-71

And when it became day, the assembly of elders of the people, both chief priests and scribes, gathered together, and they led him into their Sanʹhe·drin hall and said: 67 “If you are the Christ, tell us.” But he said to them: “Even if I told you, you would not believe it at all. 68 Moreover, if I questioned you, you would not answer.6 9 However, from now on the Son of man will be seated at the powerful right hand of God.” 70 At this they all said: “Are you, therefore, the Son of God?” He said to them: “You yourselves are saying that I am.” 71 They said: “Why do we need further testimony? For we ourselves have heard it out of his own mouth.”

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/most-sacred-night Mon, 14 Apr 2025 00:00:00 +0000 Keep Digging https://lanternroom.writeas.com/keep-digging?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ "We didn’t know we were changing the world. We just dug." — The Gophers !--more-- iframe width="200%" height="150" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2075521104&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/keep-digging" title="Keep Digging" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Keep Digging/a/div This is a story I ran across yesterday. I usually don't post other people's writing, I mean, I'll post quotes—but... I REALLY really liked this. Enjoy. Story by Margaret Harris Illustrations by Greg Stump When Mount St Helens erupted in May of 1980, it blew itself apart, blanketing its surroundings in a cubic mile of rock and ash. Around 57 people were killed, along with thousands of birds and mammals, millions of trees, and an estimated 12 million baby salmon. In the worst-affected areas, even the microbes in the soil perished, incinerated by the thermal energy of 1,600 Hiroshima bombs. An expedition to the area above Spirit Lake found no measurable carbon or nitrogen in the soil at all. Two years later, little had changed. Very little life existed anywhere in the new Pumice Plain apart from a few straggly lupine flowers that probably grew from seeds dropped by birds. And even they were struggling. Still, their presence gave scientists an idea. Lupine seeds are food for pocket gophers, and each gopher can shift as much as 227 kg of soil a month digging for them. They may even do it deliberately, improving the soil so more seeds grow. Like farmers! There were no gophers left on the Pumice Plain itself, but a few miles away, a small population had, amazingly, survived the eruption under deep snowpack. Within weeks, their digging had mixed the surface ash with deeper intact soil, speeding up the area’s recovery. Could they do the same in the devastated Pumice Plain, which had no intact soil left at all? In 1983, two scientists, Michael Allen and James McMahon, decided to find out. They caught some gophers, helicoptered them in, set up two 1-meter square enclosures, and RELEASED THE GOPHERS. For ONE DAY, these confused gophers dug around in what must have seemed like gopher hell, frantically trying to transform the Pumice Plain into somewhere they could survive. Eventually, Allen and McMahon relented, captured the gophers, and took them home. Six years later, Allen and McMahon returned. The Pumice Plain was still mostly barren. But this time, there were two 1-meter-square exceptions. Within these former gopher plots, FORTY THOUSAND different plant species were thriving. The gophers had done it! Fast forward another few decades. Allen is now a professor emeritus at UC Riverside. Last year, he and some colleagues returned to study the Pumice Plain again. And what do you think they found? YEP. THEY COULD STILL TELL THE DIFFERENCE. “In the 1980s, we were just testing the short-term reaction,” Allen said. “Who would have predicted you could toss a gopher in for a day and see a residual effect 40 years later?” So if you ever feel like you’re trapped in a hostile environment, scrabbling around in a mountain of unforgiving rock and wondering how you can ever possibly make a difference, remember the poor, frightened gophers of Mount St. Helens. And keep digging. *Wolf's note: I realized a few days after reading this, that the idea to 'keep digging' isn't really the point of this story. The Gophers only worked for a day, after all. The benefits didn't manifest for decades. So, I suppose the moral of 'don't give up' is a valid one, but it's less to do with the industrious varmints and more to do with a little industry and a lot of patiences pays dividends. So, maybe the moral is actually: work hard, then relax and wait. Let it happen. Big ships turn slowly, after all. --- #100DaysToOffload #Writing --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

“We didn’t know we were changing the world. We just dug.” — The Gophers

Wolfinwool · Keep Digging

This is a story I ran across yesterday. I usually don't post other people's writing, I mean, I'll post quotes—but... I REALLY really liked this. Enjoy.

Story by Margaret Harris Illustrations by Greg Stump When Mount St Helens erupted in May of 1980, it blew itself apart, blanketing its surroundings in a cubic mile of rock and ash. Around 57 people were killed, along with thousands of birds and mammals, millions of trees, and an estimated 12 million baby salmon. In the worst-affected areas, even the microbes in the soil perished, incinerated by the thermal energy of 1,600 Hiroshima bombs. An expedition to the area above Spirit Lake found no measurable carbon or nitrogen in the soil at all. Two years later, little had changed. Very little life existed anywhere in the new Pumice Plain apart from a few straggly lupine flowers that probably grew from seeds dropped by birds. And even they were struggling. Still, their presence gave scientists an idea. Lupine seeds are food for pocket gophers, and each gopher can shift as much as 227 kg of soil a month digging for them. They may even do it deliberately, improving the soil so more seeds grow. Like farmers! There were no gophers left on the Pumice Plain itself, but a few miles away, a small population had, amazingly, survived the eruption under deep snowpack. Within weeks, their digging had mixed the surface ash with deeper intact soil, speeding up the area’s recovery. Could they do the same in the devastated Pumice Plain, which had no intact soil left at all? In 1983, two scientists, Michael Allen and James McMahon, decided to find out. They caught some gophers, helicoptered them in, set up two 1-meter square enclosures, and RELEASED THE GOPHERS. For ONE DAY, these confused gophers dug around in what must have seemed like gopher hell, frantically trying to transform the Pumice Plain into somewhere they could survive. Eventually, Allen and McMahon relented, captured the gophers, and took them home. Six years later, Allen and McMahon returned. The Pumice Plain was still mostly barren. But this time, there were two 1-meter-square exceptions. Within these former gopher plots, FORTY THOUSAND different plant species were thriving. The gophers had done it! Fast forward another few decades. Allen is now a professor emeritus at UC Riverside. Last year, he and some colleagues returned to study the Pumice Plain again. And what do you think they found? YEP. THEY COULD STILL TELL THE DIFFERENCE. “In the 1980s, we were just testing the short-term reaction,” Allen said. “Who would have predicted you could toss a gopher in for a day and see a residual effect 40 years later?”
So if you ever feel like you’re trapped in a hostile environment, scrabbling around in a mountain of unforgiving rock and wondering how you can ever possibly make a difference, remember the poor, frightened gophers of Mount St. Helens. And keep digging.

*Wolf's note: I realized a few days after reading this, that the idea to 'keep digging' isn't really the point of this story. The Gophers only worked for a day, after all. The benefits didn't manifest for decades. So, I suppose the moral of 'don't give up' is a valid one, but it's less to do with the industrious varmints and more to do with a little industry and a lot of patiences pays dividends. So, maybe the moral is actually: work hard, then relax and wait. Let it happen. Big ships turn slowly, after all.

#100DaysToOffload #Writing

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/keep-digging Thu, 10 Apr 2025 17:00:03 +0000 Night Terrors https://lanternroom.writeas.com/night-terrors?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ Sweet Princes pray for dreams worth remembering, but sometimes the dark of consciousness chases the ether. !--more-- iframe width="200%" height="150" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2075483140&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/night-terrors" title="Night Terrors" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Night Terrors/a/div 4:38 a.m. A pressing bladder rouses me after only a few hours of sleep. This morning, I’m not blessed with the quick return to slumber. My desperate biology is firing on all cylinders, and my mind quickly wakes to match it. My carnality wants the warm lump next to me, happily cooing a little hiss-buzz, hiss-buzz. Sleep is a precious commodity for her and I don't want to rob her of it if she's uncovered a cache. So, flesh machine, since you couldn't respect my unconscious self, you'll have to contend with conscious me instead. I move through the house in darkness. It’s not pitch black, but it is lightless. I never turn on lights at night—I’ve made a game of knowing where the furniture is, mastering a “night walk” that spares my toes from phalangeal damage. My partner sleeps poorly. She always has. I do what I can to preserve that fragile rest. Biological necessity addressed, I confront the unconscious Wolf in the mirror. We stare one another down attempting to assess which of us is real and which imagined. It is just a dim reflection, but it’s enough. A rush of memory crashes over me. --- Friday night, 1981. I am nine years old, curled up between the couch and the coffee table, watching TV with my parents and younger sister. The room is paneled in dark, wood-plank veneer with short pile harvest gold carpet. To my right, a large brick fireplace. The coffee table is a heavy, ornate thing with glass inlay, usually smeared with rings from sweaty Coors cans and speckled with ashtray crumbs. This house is a two story home built in the 1940s. The low ceilings give the room a claustrophobic feel in spite of the large, heavily curtained windows behind the television console. My father, before installing the paneling, sprayed the ceiling with a popcorn texture that was popular in the era. I still remember him with the oversized plastic hopper, struggling under its awkward weight and wrangling the rubber hose feeding it. As the ceiling dried, he applied gold glitter from a hand-cranked spreader. I was seven then. As he turned the crank, the room filled with golden dust, coating everything—including me. Magical. He complained for years after that “the damned glitter never would quit coming off and getting everywhere. Ever.” That night, ABC is screening The Amityville Horror. I shouldn’t be watching. I suspect this even as I crouch behind the coffee table, peeking up from the edge. My parents sit behind me on a green-on-green brocade couch. The house smells of ash and old upholstery. The imagery and jump scares have young me in a full panic and I my mother expresses concern that this may be too much for me. My father resists. 'It'll make him tough.' He says. Then, one of the tamer scenes plays out. Tamer in content, but the effect on me will be lifelong. A character is washing dishes at a kitchen sink—short yellow curtains at the window. They look up. Two glowing red eyes open and stare back from the darkness outside. Even now, four decades later, that image still lives in me. I cannot dwell on it often because it dredges up panic. I don’t even like writing about this, but I woke and have stumbled down this memory well. It gives me chills, typing this. My skin prickles with goosebumps. For years, when asked what I was afraid of, I wouldn’t describe it aloud. I referred to it only as red eyes in the dark. The last time I described it in detail was nearly twenty years ago, in a quiet conversation on a slow Wednesday afternoon at work. My whole life, I’ve resisted looking out windows at night. What might look back? --- I don’t think these images are harmless. They lodge in the developing minds of children and echo across decades. Parents: please don’t let your kids watch horror at nine. Otherwise, they may find themselves wide-eyed at 5:00 a.m. in another century, heart pounding as their ice maker mimics the sinister creaks of a haunted house. Just now, a neighbor starts up his pickup truck. The low rumble of the engine reassures me. I am not alone in this pre-dawn vigil. I have allies—however unaware they may be. The house hums, creaks, and settles. My rational mind knows better: there are no red eyes, no blood-soaked walls, no malicious spirits pressing in from the edges. But my limbic system does not listen to reason. It stirs, flush and electric—an indecently lush machine, wired for thrill, fear, and the more exquisite shades of anticipation. Back in the mirror, moonless predawn light gives just enough to see my face. No glowing red eyes—just mine. But they don’t soothe me. Because what floods in now isn’t a horror movie memory, but something deeper. The real terror isn’t supernatural. It’s me. My imperfections. My failures. The reflection looking back. There he is, the monster I’ve truly been running from my whole life. Not the imagined demons of childhood, but the flawed, fearful man I sometimes see in quiet moments like this. And in him, generations of the same. And what do you do when the monster you’re running from lives inside you? You look. You name it. You stay. Running only wears you out and leaves less for the fight. Bend like the willow and let the storm pass. --- https://youtu.be/b9vyGKn3Ikg --- iframe width="100%" height="300" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2075490516&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/luke-201-47" title="Luke 201-47" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Luke 20_1-47/a/div Luke 20:1-47 1 On one of the days while he was teaching the people in the temple and declaring the good news, the chief priests and the scribes with the elders came 2 and said to him: “Tell us, by what authority do you do these things? Or who gave you this authority?” 3 He replied to them: “I will also ask you a question, and you tell me: 4 Was the baptism of John from heaven or from men?” 5 Then they drew conclusions among themselves, saying: “If we say, ‘From heaven,’ he will say, ‘Why did you not believe him?’ 6 But if we say, ‘From men,’ the people one and all will stone us, for they are convinced that John was a prophet.” 7 So they replied that they did not know its source. 8 Jesus said to them: “Neither am I telling you by what authority I do these things.” 9 Then he began to tell the people this illustration: “A man planted a vineyard and leased it to cultivators, and he traveled abroad for a considerable time. 10 In due season he sent a slave to the cultivators so that they would give him some of the fruit of the vineyard. The cultivators, however, sent him away empty-handed, after beating him. 11 But again he sent another slave. That one also they beat and humiliated and sent away empty-handed. 12 Yet again he sent a third; this one also they wounded and threw out. 13 At this the owner of the vineyard said, ‘What should I do? I will send my son, the beloved. They will likely respect this one.’ 14 When the cultivators caught sight of him, they reasoned with one another, saying, ‘This is the heir. Let us kill him so that the inheritance may become ours.’ 15 So they threw him out of the vineyard and killed him. What, then, will the owner of the vineyard do to them? 16 He will come and kill these cultivators and will give the vineyard to others.” On hearing this, they said: “Never may that happen!” 17 But he looked straight at them and said: “What, then, does this mean where it is written: ‘The stone that the builders rejected, this has become the chief cornerstone’? 18 Everyone falling on that stone will be shattered. As for anyone on whom it falls, it will crush him.” 19 The scribes and the chief priests then sought to get their hands on him in that very hour, but they feared the people, for they realized that he told this illustration with them in mind. 20 And after observing him closely, they sent men whom they had secretly hired to pretend that they were righteous in order to catch him in his speech, so as to turn him over to the government and to the authority of the governor. 21 And they questioned him, saying: “Teacher, we know you speak and teach correctly and show no partiality, but you teach the way of God in line with truth: 22 Is it lawful for us to pay taxes to Caesar or not?” 23 But he detected their cunning and said to them: 24 “Show me a de·narʹi·us. Whose image and inscription does it have?” They said: “Caesar’s.” 25 He said to them: “By all means, then, pay back Caesar’s things to Caesar but God’s things to God.” 26 Well, they were not able to trap him in his speech before the people, but amazed at his answer, they became silent. 27 However, some of the Sadducees, those who say there is no resurrection, came and asked him: 28 “Teacher, Moses wrote us, ‘If a man’s brother dies, leaving a wife, but he was childless, his brother should take the wife and raise up offspring for his brother.’ 29 Now there were seven brothers. The first took a wife but died childless. 30 So the second 31 and the third married her. Likewise even all seven; they died and left no children. 32 Finally the woman also died. 33 Consequently, in the resurrection, whose wife will she become? For the seven had her as a wife.” 34 Jesus said to them: “The children of this system of things marry and are given in marriage, 35 but those who have been counted worthy of gaining that system of things and the resurrection from the dead neither marry nor are given in marriage. 36 In fact, neither can they die anymore, for they are like the angels, and they are God’s children by being children of the resurrection. 37 But that the dead are raised up, even Moses made known in the account about the thornbush, when he calls Jehovah ‘the God of Abraham and God of Isaac and God of Jacob.’ 38 He is a God, not of the dead, but of the living, for they are all living to him.” 39 In response some of the scribes said: “Teacher, you spoke well.” 40 For they no longer had the courage to ask him a single question. 41 In turn he asked them: “How is it they say that the Christ is David’s son? 42 For David himself says in the book of Psalms, ‘Jehovah said to my Lord: “Sit at my right hand 43 until I place your enemies as a stool for your feet.”’ 44 David, therefore, calls him Lord; so how is he his son?” 45 Then, while all the people were listening, he said to his disciples: 46 “Beware of the scribes who like to walk around in robes and who love greetings in the marketplaces and front seats in the synagogues and the most prominent places at evening meals, 47 and who devour the houses of the widows and for show make long prayers. These will receive a more severe judgment.” --- #essay #memoir #confession #biblereading #100DaysToOffload #Writing --- a href="https://remark.as/p/lanternroom/night-terrors"Discuss.../a --- --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

Sweet Princes pray for dreams worth remembering, but sometimes the dark of consciousness chases the ether.

Wolfinwool · Night Terrors

4:38 a.m.

A pressing bladder rouses me after only a few hours of sleep. This morning, I’m not blessed with the quick return to slumber. My desperate biology is firing on all cylinders, and my mind quickly wakes to match it. My carnality wants the warm lump next to me, happily cooing a little hiss-buzz, hiss-buzz. Sleep is a precious commodity for her and I don't want to rob her of it if she's uncovered a cache. So, flesh machine, since you couldn't respect my unconscious self, you'll have to contend with conscious me instead.

I move through the house in darkness. It’s not pitch black, but it is lightless. I never turn on lights at night—I’ve made a game of knowing where the furniture is, mastering a “night walk” that spares my toes from phalangeal damage. My partner sleeps poorly. She always has. I do what I can to preserve that fragile rest.

Biological necessity addressed, I confront the unconscious Wolf in the mirror. We stare one another down attempting to assess which of us is real and which imagined. It is just a dim reflection, but it’s enough. A rush of memory crashes over me.

Friday night, 1981. I am nine years old, curled up between the couch and the coffee table, watching TV with my parents and younger sister. The room is paneled in dark, wood-plank veneer with short pile harvest gold carpet. To my right, a large brick fireplace. The coffee table is a heavy, ornate thing with glass inlay, usually smeared with rings from sweaty Coors cans and speckled with ashtray crumbs. This house is a two story home built in the 1940s. The low ceilings give the room a claustrophobic feel in spite of the large, heavily curtained windows behind the television console. My father, before installing the paneling, sprayed the ceiling with a popcorn texture that was popular in the era.

I still remember him with the oversized plastic hopper, struggling under its awkward weight and wrangling the rubber hose feeding it. As the ceiling dried, he applied gold glitter from a hand-cranked spreader. I was seven then. As he turned the crank, the room filled with golden dust, coating everything—including me. Magical. He complained for years after that “the damned glitter never would quit coming off and getting everywhere. Ever.”

That night, ABC is screening The Amityville Horror.

I shouldn’t be watching. I suspect this even as I crouch behind the coffee table, peeking up from the edge. My parents sit behind me on a green-on-green brocade couch. The house smells of ash and old upholstery. The imagery and jump scares have young me in a full panic and I my mother expresses concern that this may be too much for me. My father resists. 'It'll make him tough.' He says.

Then, one of the tamer scenes plays out. Tamer in content, but the effect on me will be lifelong.

A character is washing dishes at a kitchen sink—short yellow curtains at the window. They look up. Two glowing red eyes open and stare back from the darkness outside.

Even now, four decades later, that image still lives in me. I cannot dwell on it often because it dredges up panic. I don’t even like writing about this, but I woke and have stumbled down this memory well. It gives me chills, typing this. My skin prickles with goosebumps.

For years, when asked what I was afraid of, I wouldn’t describe it aloud. I referred to it only as red eyes in the dark. The last time I described it in detail was nearly twenty years ago, in a quiet conversation on a slow Wednesday afternoon at work.

My whole life, I’ve resisted looking out windows at night. What might look back?

I don’t think these images are harmless. They lodge in the developing minds of children and echo across decades. Parents: please don’t let your kids watch horror at nine. Otherwise, they may find themselves wide-eyed at 5:00 a.m. in another century, heart pounding as their ice maker mimics the sinister creaks of a haunted house.

Just now, a neighbor starts up his pickup truck. The low rumble of the engine reassures me. I am not alone in this pre-dawn vigil. I have allies—however unaware they may be.

The house hums, creaks, and settles. My rational mind knows better: there are no red eyes, no blood-soaked walls, no malicious spirits pressing in from the edges. But my limbic system does not listen to reason. It stirs, flush and electric—an indecently lush machine, wired for thrill, fear, and the more exquisite shades of anticipation.

Back in the mirror, moonless predawn light gives just enough to see my face. No glowing red eyes—just mine.

But they don’t soothe me.

Because what floods in now isn’t a horror movie memory, but something deeper. The real terror isn’t supernatural. It’s me. My imperfections. My failures. The reflection looking back.

There he is, the monster I’ve truly been running from my whole life.

Not the imagined demons of childhood, but the flawed, fearful man I sometimes see in quiet moments like this. And in him, generations of the same.

And what do you do when the monster you’re running from lives inside you?

You look. You name it. You stay. Running only wears you out and leaves less for the fight. Bend like the willow and let the storm pass.

Wolfinwool · Luke 20_1-47

Luke 20:1-47

1 On one of the days while he was teaching the people in the temple and declaring the good news, the chief priests and the scribes with the elders came 2 and said to him: “Tell us, by what authority do you do these things? Or who gave you this authority?” 3 He replied to them: “I will also ask you a question, and you tell me: 4 Was the baptism of John from heaven or from men?” 5 Then they drew conclusions among themselves, saying: “If we say, ‘From heaven,’ he will say, ‘Why did you not believe him?’ 6 But if we say, ‘From men,’ the people one and all will stone us, for they are convinced that John was a prophet.” 7 So they replied that they did not know its source. 8 Jesus said to them: “Neither am I telling you by what authority I do these things.” 9 Then he began to tell the people this illustration: “A man planted a vineyard and leased it to cultivators, and he traveled abroad for a considerable time. 10 In due season he sent a slave to the cultivators so that they would give him some of the fruit of the vineyard. The cultivators, however, sent him away empty-handed, after beating him. 11 But again he sent another slave. That one also they beat and humiliated and sent away empty-handed. 12 Yet again he sent a third; this one also they wounded and threw out. 13 At this the owner of the vineyard said, ‘What should I do? I will send my son, the beloved. They will likely respect this one.’ 14 When the cultivators caught sight of him, they reasoned with one another, saying, ‘This is the heir. Let us kill him so that the inheritance may become ours.’ 15 So they threw him out of the vineyard and killed him. What, then, will the owner of the vineyard do to them? 16 He will come and kill these cultivators and will give the vineyard to others.” On hearing this, they said: “Never may that happen!” 17 But he looked straight at them and said: “What, then, does this mean where it is written: ‘The stone that the builders rejected, this has become the chief cornerstone’? 18 Everyone falling on that stone will be shattered. As for anyone on whom it falls, it will crush him.” 19 The scribes and the chief priests then sought to get their hands on him in that very hour, but they feared the people, for they realized that he told this illustration with them in mind. 20 And after observing him closely, they sent men whom they had secretly hired to pretend that they were righteous in order to catch him in his speech, so as to turn him over to the government and to the authority of the governor. 21 And they questioned him, saying: “Teacher, we know you speak and teach correctly and show no partiality, but you teach the way of God in line with truth: 22 Is it lawful for us to pay taxes to Caesar or not?” 23 But he detected their cunning and said to them: 24 “Show me a de·narʹi·us. Whose image and inscription does it have?” They said: “Caesar’s.” 25 He said to them: “By all means, then, pay back Caesar’s things to Caesar but God’s things to God.” 26 Well, they were not able to trap him in his speech before the people, but amazed at his answer, they became silent. 27 However, some of the Sadducees, those who say there is no resurrection, came and asked him: 28 “Teacher, Moses wrote us, ‘If a man’s brother dies, leaving a wife, but he was childless, his brother should take the wife and raise up offspring for his brother.’ 29 Now there were seven brothers. The first took a wife but died childless. 30 So the second 31 and the third married her. Likewise even all seven; they died and left no children. 32 Finally the woman also died. 33 Consequently, in the resurrection, whose wife will she become? For the seven had her as a wife.” 34 Jesus said to them: “The children of this system of things marry and are given in marriage, 35 but those who have been counted worthy of gaining that system of things and the resurrection from the dead neither marry nor are given in marriage. 36 In fact, neither can they die anymore, for they are like the angels, and they are God’s children by being children of the resurrection. 37 But that the dead are raised up, even Moses made known in the account about the thornbush, when he calls Jehovah ‘the God of Abraham and God of Isaac and God of Jacob.’ 38 He is a God, not of the dead, but of the living, for they are all living to him.” 39 In response some of the scribes said: “Teacher, you spoke well.” 40 For they no longer had the courage to ask him a single question. 41 In turn he asked them: “How is it they say that the Christ is David’s son? 42 For David himself says in the book of Psalms, ‘Jehovah said to my Lord: “Sit at my right hand 43 until I place your enemies as a stool for your feet.”’ 44 David, therefore, calls him Lord; so how is he his son?” 45 Then, while all the people were listening, he said to his disciples: 46 “Beware of the scribes who like to walk around in robes and who love greetings in the marketplaces and front seats in the synagogues and the most prominent places at evening meals, 47 and who devour the houses of the widows and for show make long prayers. These will receive a more severe judgment.”

#essay #memoir #confession #biblereading #100DaysToOffload #Writing

Discuss...

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/night-terrors Thu, 10 Apr 2025 14:20:00 +0000 Painting a Jaguar https://lanternroom.writeas.com/painting-a-jaguar?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ Some things fly better in memory than they ever did in air. !--more-- iframe width="200%" height="150" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2075093336&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/jaguar" title="jaguar" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"jaguar/a/div In 1996, I was fully on becoming an airbrush artist and portrait painter. This was a huge canvas and I was in love with the scale of the piece. I never titled it and was disappointed when it didn't medal in a local show. It was accepted, so that was a win at least. I worked and worked on this. Jaguar was one of the first pieces where i fell in love with how these kinds of works come to life with the finishing hi-lights. Ultimately this sold to a local collector and I went on to paint another dozen or so big cats. I watched Superman 1978 Sunday and this poem, corny as it is has been rattling around in my head. It fits the tone of the film, absolutely comic. A quick google search revealed that originally, this wasn’t a poem, it was a song. And Margot Kidder sang the words. When you listen to the score in the background you can sing the words along with the melody, if you care to. For better or worse: https://youtube.com/shorts/uPy7PwbjfkY?feature=share --- #art #painting #poetry #100DaysToOffload #Writing --- a href="https://remark.as/p/lanternroom/painting-a-jaguar"Discuss.../a --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

Some things fly better in memory than they ever did in air.

Wolfinwool · jaguar

In 1996, I was fully on becoming an airbrush artist and portrait painter. This was a huge canvas and I was in love with the scale of the piece. I never titled it and was disappointed when it didn't medal in a local show. It was accepted, so that was a win at least. I worked and worked on this. Jaguar was one of the first pieces where i fell in love with how these kinds of works come to life with the finishing hi-lights. Ultimately this sold to a local collector and I went on to paint another dozen or so big cats. I watched Superman 1978 Sunday and this poem, corny as it is has been rattling around in my head. It fits the tone of the film, absolutely comic. A quick google search revealed that originally, this wasn’t a poem, it was a song. And Margot Kidder sang the words. When you listen to the score in the background you can sing the words along with the melody, if you care to.

For better or worse:

#art #painting #poetry #100DaysToOffload #Writing

Discuss...

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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/painting-a-jaguar Thu, 10 Apr 2025 05:30:20 +0000