Forest Jewels With No Dreams

It seems that magic strings strung with irresistible dreams are a sure route to being roped-in by disappointment.

When I was a little boy, the little girls on my block taught me how to make headwear and necklaces from repeated insertion of the stems of tiny wildflowers into each other. Do you remember those?

Later, in my young adult years, I’d make necklaces while camping or hiking in the forests of the west-U.S. coastal states. I’d use acorns, pine cone whatchamacallits (the little detatchable pine cone parts which comprise the cone itself, whose official scientific name is obviously unknown to me), and any other assorted seeds, small bones, small dried leaves, etc., all the small string-worthy artifacts abundantly carpeting the ancient old-growth habitats.

I never projected any magic purpose onto those endeavors. They were simply ways of quietly appreciating, reverencing, and creatively exploring the experience of humble integration with the forest, and with the sensed need to embody that integration by wearing the forest on my own skin.

No magic purposes of imploring and pleading to destiny. No irresistible dreamings for wishes (wishes which, in retrospect, would have all been truly superceded by the beauty at hand right there, right at that moment). No strings of fantasy, roping me into self-charted routes to disappointment. Just pure sensing of the simple present, and, when lucky enough, just being taught by little girls how to make REAL crown jewels out of tiny wildflowers.

 

–John Powell (In response to “Promethea.”)

About Celia Farber

Celia Farber is a journalist, author, and editor based in New York City, who grew up in Sweden and New York City. Farber has written on a variety of subjects for SPIN, Rolling Stone, Esquire, Harper’s, Salon, New York Press, and many more. In 2008, Celia Farber won the Semmelweis International Society’s Clean Hands Award For Investigative Journalism.

Comments

  1. Klir Ing Mee Ting says:

    The title appears to indicate that Ms. Farber experienced a familial connection to the forest palace and it’s heritage treasury.

    She appears to recall the deep strings,
    strings now obscured and buried by asphalt
    and by captive wired lightening
    which fractures and scatters mind into dust storms of
    frenzied razor-sharp fragments no longer soft enough
    or brown or green enough for
    being strung with heirloom bone needles, on filaments of
    fern, reed, and braided hair of sacred meat sources.

    She appears to recall not being lost…
    Not being lost on this artificially lifted
    maelstrom of mayhem…
    To recall being home…
    Being in the family home, below, far below,
    adorned in the presents of the palace of ever-enough,
    ever-enriched, ever-brown, ever-reverent,
    ever sky-embracing, sky-embraced and sky-assured,
    ever-crowned,
    ever-everyone at home
    on a land far away
    where the string is,
    there, underneath all this razor-sharp history,
    ever calling us to come back to it…
    Back to the forest
    which ever was, and is,
    dream and treasure enough.

    It’s the clearing where the meeting occurs,
    where one meets the one whom
    one ever-should have been…
    Before home was buried by
    history’s dust storms of too much,
    buried by what are now the paved and wired
    dust storms of the same old mayhem dream,
    the same old craving to
    capture lightening
    and ascend superior to
    the beings whom the forest
    destined us and ever-yearns for us
    to be:

    Forest Jewels With No Dreams.

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