Only Passing Through

The wanderer had no memory of his past (if, indeed, he had any past at all). In fact, he couldn't recall any time when he had not been lost in these woods. But he knew that somewhere beyond this dark expanse he must have a home, a place of calm and warm familiarity, peopled with friendly kith and kin. He had often tried finding his way back home, wherever of whatever that home might be, by the guiding stars and the sun in their courses. It was no good. All his attempted navigation brought him was an uneasy sense that he was straying farther from his home; that instead of escaping this strange forest he was plunging ever deeper into it. If only his surroundings weren't so confusing and overwhelming; it was far too easy to lose oneself forever in them.

Then, at twilight on a drizzly wind-swept day,  he stumbled upon a crumbling high bank near a river. At its base, in a cave almost undetectable by enshrouding shadows and vegetation, he could just barely discern ... what? ... could it be a door? He stood staring at it in wonder for some minutes until the ever-growing and enveloping shadows of approaching evening roused him. 

He approached the thing in the shadows cautiously. Yes, he could make it out now, even through the camouflaging overhanging vegetation and deepening gloom. It really was a door. He felt ... what? ... awe, fear, wonderment? So many emotions ... or instincts ... that he could not name. The door was deep inside the hollow. From what he could see of it through the overhanging vegetation, he estimated it was roughly six feet tall and three feet wide and seemed to be made of pine. He then became aware of the scent of freshly-turned earth. That caused him to pause once more, although he could not understand why. He roused himself again, took a deep, shuddering breath, and clawed and shoved his way through the entangling roots and vines blocking the cave's entrance.

He broke through. The smell of turned earth was even stronger now. He strained his eyes in the darkness but wasn't able to see the door. Instead, where he thought it had been, where he could have sworn it had been, he now saw a figure. The wanderer stood transfixed, too amazed to be frightened. Somehow the figure was lighter, more distinct than it should be in the surrounding dark, as if it were somehow bioluminescent. The wanderer shook his head. The very idea was absurd. The figure was obviously human ... yet, it was visible in the darkness.

The two stared at each other for a minute or so. Then the figure reached out his hand to the wanderer and smiled. That smile! The wanderer was caught in that smile like a child is caught in his parent's loving arms. And then, with a sudden, rushing revelation, he understood. Now smiling himself, he happily realized he was home now ... finally, absolutely home. The figure's smile was his home. "Home," the wanderer whispered unconsciously, "home, finally home!" He reached out his hand toward the figure's just as the mouth of the cave collapsed, sealing him off from the woods.

For to Such Belongs the Kingdom of God

 "And He took them in His arms and blessed them, laying His hands upon them."

Merry Christmas!

 May you have a most joyous holiday season!

Tongue-Cut Sparrow

This is another old drawing. One of Kathy's favorite folktales is "The Tongue-Cut Sparrow," so I drew this for her, along with some other drawings illustrating the story. The reason I selected this particular piece is that I recall how much fun I had drawing the anthropomorphic birds.

The Sculptor

There's not a thing to this: no bad pun, no story, no moral -- nothing. It's merely a fun little drawing done only for the amusement one experiences while taking an aimless stroll with a pencil.

Books From the Past

 

Back in 2015, Sarah self-published Sylvan Dreaming, a book of her poetry. She asked me to illustrate it, and how could anyone say no to such a charming individual? I may be biased, but I think the poetry is excellent. Recently coming upon a copy of this book, and the other titles that follow, I toyed with the idea of posting them here. I was averse at first since I felt it would come across as rather repellant bragging. But then I admitted this little footling blog exists only for my rampant ego anyway, so why not? So, if anyone should stumble upon this post, I ask you to both excuse and indulge me in the following unbridled display of conceit. 

First, the illustrations for this title weren't as bad as I remembered. I wouldn't call them good, mind you, but I feel they're not as bad as they might have been. As always, the colors did not reproduce well at all. I don't know if I'm the problem or if it's the computer or a combination of the two. I can overlook that, though, since I'm used to it and, besides, the poetry is so good that the horribly colored accompanying illustrations can't detract from it.

Sarah's next book, also published in 2015, is Mystic Dreaming. Again, the poetry is great, the illustrations could have been better and the coloring could have been a lot better. But now a new problem has raised its ugly head. For some reason, Sarah changed the illustrations' dimensions. Maybe (I can't recall now) I used a different size paper than used for the previous book's pictures, so the image didn't fit as nicely. They're very elongated and distorted, as if seen in a funhouse mirror. A fantastic artist and friend of the family, Mr. Gene Lehman, who also is a computer whiz, worked his computer magic to resize all the images, so they would fit on the page and not be warped. Alas, Sarah never used Gene's corrected images; thus, the book's great poetry is sadly accompanied by ridiculous-looking drawings.

The next book, published in 2017, is Kathy's retelling of a folktale and is titled Marriage of a Mouse. Again, I might be a trifle prejudiced, but I think she did a great job! The cover only has the title with no art, so I used the title page for its image. As for my drawings, unlike Sarah's books where the drawings have their own pages, this one has the text and drawing sharing the same page. Frankly, this made the illustrations too small and, if I remember correctly, there were only a few book sizes offered by the printer, which left a lot of white space. Still, since the book is for little children and is about little mice, perhaps it's all right the images are tiny.

Now, I'm showing the last book out of sheer vanity and gross conceit. It's a series of attempted spooky stories and I wrote it myself. I used the pen name Quillin Potter since other Jeff Potters had books out. The book has no illustrations. I must have proofread that book a billion-billion times and it's still overrun with errors, such as misusing "traverse" and "transverse" and "vertical" for "horizontal." And don't get me started on wild punctuation, syntax and grammar! Maybe I was so obsessed with trying to sound like Edgar A. Poe or H.P. Lovecraft that I wasn't paying enough attention to anything else.

For fun, I checked Amazon's website to see if they still carry these titles. They do! But then, the books are print-on-demand. I was surprised with how expensive they are. But then I recalled each book had to have a minimum price for the printer to at least break even.

And that's it! There's no reason for this post. As I said, I posted this just out of gross vanity ... I guess just like I did with all its sisters. 

The Cave Dweller

"My friend here," said Iago, tilting his head toward Quasimodo, "my friend and I  have wandered these woods for a very long time." The faun slightly nodded, but said nothing. Iago cleared his throat and continued. "We've been caught in many downpours, some terribly brutal ... with hail and everything."

"And the storm clouds are gathering?" asked the faun.

"Quite dark," replied Quasimodo, "and quite, quite heavy. It's going to be a big storm."

"We didn't realize this cave was already tenanted," said Iago. "We mean no harm. We're merely seeking shelter from the approaching storm."

The two men could tell by his eyes that the faun's thoughts had turned inward, a million miles inward, as they listened to the approaching thunder and felt the wind slashing at their backs. The faun stayed lost in contemplation for several minutes, then sighed. "The laws of hospitality, gentlemen, are what they are, and who am I to break them?" He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. "Please, enter. At least for the duration of this storm, my cave is your cave."

The two companions entered timidly and nestled in a corner of the cave, facing the entrance, and silently watched the wind coursing through the vegetation as the sky grew dark.

"What is it like out there?" asked the faun.

"Pardon?" said Iago.

"I mean out there, in the woods. It's been a very long time since I stepped hoof out of this cave ... lifetimes. Are the woods as they were?"

"As they were since when?" asked Quasimodo. "How long have you dwelt in this cave?"

"Long ... long. It was inhabited by an ancient people when I first came here ... ancient and odd. Generation after generation they never faced the mouth of the cave. Indeed, they didn't know the cave had a mouth, and their only concept of reality was the shadows of clouds and animals thrown on the cave's walls. Then some Greek philosopher came along, I forget his name, and convinced them to turn around. They were amazed, as you might suppose, at the new reality, a reality that was the cause of their ancient reality; the light and the solid things were the source of their reality of shadows. They left here to explore the there. I, however, as you see, stayed here. They left me alone. They never returned. It's been a very long time."

Iago shrugged. "Once one sees a reality perhaps one is disinclined to return to the shadows."

"But what a reality," said the faun. "A reality I knew well! Teeming with savage beasts, cliffs, monsters ... and the storms, the terrible, terrible storms!"

"And that's why you never left here?" asked Quasimodo.

"The cave is safe, while the surrounding woods are ... well, the woods."

    

All three shuddered.

    

"True," said Quasimodo after a long pause, "the realities may well be more frightening than the shadows. I've seen monsters and storms. But I suspect there's another reality even beyond them, that they are but its shadows."

The faun knitted his brow. "A reality greater than storms and monsters? It is too tremendous to comprehend. And so I remain here. I am safe here."

    

It was now Quasimodo's turn to seem to be looking deep inside himself. "Yet, even when caught in a torrent, I swear I can hear some still, small voice, as it were, a voice even more real than the rain."

    

"Oh?" said Iago, arching an eyebrow, "and what, pray tell, does this voice say?"

    

"Well, it's hard for me to put into my own words, but it's ... oh ... like, 'Yes, there are monsters and there are storms; nevertheless, open you mind, open your heart and explore, explore it all with me.'"

    

The faun stared at the mouth of the cave and then at the two companions. "You know, I must confess that I have grown weary of this cave ... after all this time. I've not been caught in a storm, but I've also not felt the morning dew. Maybe ... shadows ... reality ... to explore again! Maybe, once this storm has passed, maybe I should leave this cave."

   

Iago smiled. "We passed a hillside covered with poison ivy on our way here."

    

The faun returned the smile. "I remember it always tasted best after a rain."

    

Quasimodo leaned back against the cave wall and stared dreamily at the now raging storm. "Then I suggest, while waiting out this storm, that we pass the time by chewing the fat."

    

"Or chewing the cud, as the case may be," said Iago.

    

But no one talked. They only sat, watching the storm, each lost in his own thoughts, and each with a smile on his lips.