Michael Robert Dyet's Blog, page 74
March 10, 2012
AWAKENING TO SPRING'S GRAND SPECTACLE OF WINGS
Hmmm, what is this stirring in my soul and impatient rustling in my heart that has infected me?
Around this time of year my mind begins to wander of its own volition. My powers of concentration falter at inopportune moments. Even my feet get a bit restless. All because a little voice begins to whisper insistently in my ear: Migration!
For those of us who have a love affair with our feathered friends, spring is by definition our favourite season. It is a small window of opportunity – an oh so precious couple of months – when our binoculars are pointed skywards to catch every possible species that passes through.
It begins with the waterfowl migration in March. The wintering species are joined by throngs of returning ducks that fill the bays to overflowing. And, of course, their sister species – the handsome Grebes. Horned Grebes just beginning to display their chestnut necks and regal golden ear tufts. Show-off Red-Necked Grebes, often in flocks of a hundred or more, with their braying chatter echoing across the water.
And let's not forget the snow-white Tundra Swans with their massive six foot wingspan. Long and regal necks gracefully arching into a black bill with that diagnostic yellow spot near the eye.
Early April brings flocks of returning hawks cruising the ridges on warm thermals. The ubiquitous Red-winged Blackbirds with their welcoming conkereeeeee. Noisy Grackles, the bubble-bubble-zee of Brown Cowbirds and the ank-ank-ank of Nuthatches.
Our anticipation begins to swell in mid April as the Swallows arrive. The steely blue-green Tree Swallows are always first. But the fork-tailed Barn Swallows, swooping low over the water, won't be long behind them.
By now Killdeers are putting in their appearance heralding the shorebird migration to come. Name-saying Phoebes are flitting about and the oh-sweet-peabody-peabody-peabody of the first White-throated Sparrow rings out.
The day counts begin to rise in late April as Brown Creepers spiral up the tree trunks. Winter Wrens scramble across deadfalls. Golden-crowned Kinglets flit about the greening branches joined soon by their Ruby-crowned cousins.
The tail-wagging Hermit Thrush is abundant by now reacquainting us with the graceful fluted calls of the Thrush family. The first warblers are arriving on the scene lead by the distinctive yellow rump of the aptly named Yellow-Rumped Warbler. Tail-bobbing Palm Warblers are here and there and, perhaps, a Pine Warbler trilling from the tree tops.
But April is only the opening act. May is the month-long main event headlined by fall-outs of bright Warblers, symphonies of Thrushes, waves of Flycatchers, brilliant splashes of Orioles, Tanagers and Grosbeaks… the list goes on and on.
The grand spectacle of the spring migration is the unrivalled metaphor of metaphors for renewal, rebirth and a fresh start. Nothing else can feed our soul and revive our spirit quite the same way. Ah but if only it were not so short!
~ Michael Robert Dyet is the author of "Until the Deep Water Stills – An Internet-enhanced Novel" – double winner in the Reader Views Literary Awards 2009. Visit Michael's website at www.mdyetmetaphor.com or the novel online companion at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog .
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March 3, 2012
Random Act of Metaphor: The Howling Wind and a Solitary Feather
A certain amount of opposition is a great help to a man. Kites rise against, not with, the wind. ~ Lewis Mumford, American Sociologist, 1895 – 1990
Hmmm, if I tossed a solitary feather into a random gust of this howling wind, how far might it twist and turn, swirl and curl, spin and spiral before it settled to the ground?
Perhaps, passed along from one gust to the next, it would travel countless miles in an endless journey of chance. Hour by hour climbing higher and ever higher in the wind funnel until, at last, it tickles the undersides of cloudbanks in distant places I will never see.
It might, perchance, catch warm thermals and soar with Golden Eagles. Sashay down, down, down to settle momentarily in the crater of a slumbering volcano. Then, swept up again, follow the course of mighty rivers that wind their way to the sea.
I imagine it becoming one with the wind. Once a mere passenger but now the incontrovertible proof that the wind itself exists. The wind the sole and willing means by which it stays aloft.
The howling wind and a solitary feather – a random act of metaphor for love itself. The perfect, effortless symbiosis and the freedom to ever be so.
~ Michael Robert Dyet is the author of "Until the Deep Water Stills – An Internet-enhanced Novel" – double winner in the Reader Views Literary Awards 2009. Visit Michael's website at www.mdyetmetaphor.com or the novel online companion at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog .
~ Subscribe to "Michael's Metaphors of Life Journal aka Things That Make Me Go Hmmm" at its' internet home www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog2 . Instructions for subscribing are provided in the "Subscribe to this Blog: How To" instructions page in the right sidebar. If you're reading this post on another social networking site, come back regularly to my page for postings once a week.
~ Send comments or questions to michael@mdyetmetaphor.com .
February 26, 2012
In Praise of Mystic Summer Swallowtails
Hmmm, do the stunning swallowtail butterflies have any notion of just how spectacular and photogenic they really are?
I've spent many a summer day butterfly watching – indulging my delight in these delicate, winged creatures and managing to find more than 80 different species. But the elegant swallowtails always cause me to linger. Such near perfection that emanates from…
An uncommonly patient Black Swallowtail… the delicate scalloping of its hindwings flaring into the distinctive "tails"… the suffused blue patches each like a master brush stroke… the double-fringed forewings impossibly symmetrical… its choice to perch so majestically on the purple bloom of an inhospitable thistle.
A rather preoccupied Spicebush Swallowtail… seemingly defying gravity as it clings with thread-like legs to a purple wildflower… angelic hindwings in mid flutter embracing a sister flower… the cluster of orange crescents pointing to the teardrop tail.
The immense Giant Swallowtail resting peacefully on veined green leaves at the dark forest edge… flamboyant yellow spot bands against a backdrop of velvet black… the subtle flare of blue and orange where the hindwings intersect… yellow pearls encased in the exaggerated black tails.
The splash of summer yellow Canadian Tiger Swallowtail… triplets of black bands sprawling across the golden palette… hints of orange here and there… arching wings mirroring the flared green leaves as it feeds on a profusion of pinkish blossoms.
A magnificent Eastern Tiger Swallowtail "puddling" in the mud of a Pelee Island back road… powdered white outer wings fading into speckled blue… orange accents lovingly placed as if by the hands of the Maker himself… forewings majestically posed as if only seconds from take-off.
Ever will these elegant creatures be a metaphor for the wondrous beauty, exquisite detail and fragile majesty of nature. We are their guardians. In our hands lies their fate.
~ Michael Robert Dyet is the author of "Until the Deep Water Stills – An Internet-enhanced Novel" – double winner in the Reader Views Literary Awards 2009. Visit Michael's website at www.mdyetmetaphor.comor the novel online companion at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog.
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February 19, 2012
Random Act of Metaphor: The Interplay of Light and Shadow on A February Night
Hmmm, do the shadows of a February night illuminate the twists and turns of our intricately woven lives as much as the lights that cast them?
The lamp posts, silent sentries scattered with no apparent logic around the quartet of high-rise buildings, shed a perfect sphere of shadow encased in an outer ring of light.
And in the frost-white glow of lamp light, the limbs of the winter-barren trees cast countless shadows that spread like veins across the crusted snow.
And beyond the reach of lamp light, shadows mark the outline of the frozen pond which lies slumbering beneath the quilt of winter's night.
And far above the murky shadow of the pond, distant flickers of light from jets heading for Pearson – so feeble yet insistent in the gloomy night sky.
And sprawling below the star-starved sky, the cacophony of lights in sparkling amber reflecting back the restless pulse of the city.
The interplay of light and shadow on a February night… a random act of metaphor for the ebb and flow of joy and sorrow, laughter and weeping, rejoicing and mourning that accumulate to make up a lifetime.
~ Michael Robert Dyet is the author of "Until the Deep Water Stills – An Internet-enhanced Novel" – double winner in the Reader Views Literary Awards 2009. Visit Michael's website at www.mdyetmetaphor.com or the novel online companion at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog. Visit www.smashwords.comto download a free preview of the e-book version.
~ Subscribe to "Michael's Metaphors of Life Journal aka Things That Make Me Go Hmmm" at its' internet home www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog2. Instructions for subscribing are provided in the "Subscribe to this Blog: How To" instructions page in the right sidebar. If you're reading this post on another social networking site, come back regularly to my page for postings once a week.
~ Send comments or questions to michael@mdyetmetaphor.com.
February 11, 2012
Truth: A Blinding Flash or a Glittering String of Beads?
There are very few human beings who receive the truth, complete and staggering, by instant illumination. Most of them acquire it fragment by fragment, on a small scale, by successive developments, cellularly, like a laborious mosaic. ~ Anaïs Nin, French-Cuban Author. 1903 – 1977.
Hmmm, is that elusive thing we call truth a glittering gemstone or is it etched little by little on the stepping stones we follow through life?
In my younger and more idealistic days, I hoped my truth – the meaning and purpose of my existence – would come to me in moment of inspiration. An "aha moment" when the stars aligned and all became clear.
That moment hasn't happened yet and I don't expect it will. Oh, I still yearn for that blinding flash of light now and then. But I'm becoming more comfortable with the fragment by fragment school of thought that Nin offers.
Life is made up of constant calls to action, and we seldom have time for more than hastily contrived answers. ~ Learned Hand, 1872 – 1961, United States Judge and Judicial Philosopher
I'm more concerned these days with navigating the twists and turns that life throws at me on a daily basis than with grasping hold of one kernel of truth. I've gotten quite adept at learning as I go along and rolling with the punches.
I do have an internal compass – a set of values and beliefs – that I rely upon to guide me. But where I'm ultimately going to end up I really can't say. And so, I'm trying to live each day as it comes. It's a good day when I can lay my head on the pillow and be satisfied with where I am.
Some days I'm inclined to believe that Frost put his finger on it:
In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life. It goes on. ~ Robert Frost, 1874 – 1963, American Poet
And then, on the more chaotic days, it seems that Dickinson is closer to the mark:
To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else. ~ Emily Dickinson, 1830 – 1886, American Poet
I've come to believe that truth is more of a verb than a noun. We define our own truth by the actions we take as we ride the waves and troughs of life.
Perhaps the best we can do is to adopt the metaphor of the Phoenix – the legendary bird that burns itself to death and rises fresh and young from the ashes. Burn ourselves to ash each day and start anew tomorrow.
Let us allow each day to have its own truth and be grateful for it. At the end of our days, our life will have been a string of glittering truth beads that we leave behind as our legacy. Seems about right to me.
~ Michael Robert Dyet is the author of "Until the Deep Water Stills – An Internet-enhanced Novel" – double winner in the Reader Views Literary Awards 2009. Visit Michael's website at www.mdyetmetaphor.comor the novel online companion at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog.
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Send comments or questions to michael@mdyetmetaphor.com.
February 5, 2012
The Wonders of a Few Square Feet of Meadow
"Her body moved with the frankness that comes from solitary habits. But solitude is only a human presumption. Every quiet step is thunder to beetle life underfoot; every choice is a world made new for the chosen. All secrets are witnessed." ~ Barbara Kingsolver, Prodigal Summer
Hmmm, how much of life do we overlook because we're preoccupied with… getting where we're going… glancing over our shoulder for who might be chasing us… looking ten steps ahead for what danger might be waiting there?
The Kingsolver quote at the top of this post is my favourite opening paragraph to a novel. I love it for the eloquence of her language, her gift for turning a phrase and how it so elegantly sets the tone for all that follows.
But it also speaks to how much our state of mind, and our presumptions, colour and even mask what we perceive. We are a self-absorbed species. An inordinate amount of our time is devoted to calculating where we stand in relation to each other. Am I falling behind you, getting too far ahead to keep tabs on you or just plain paying attention to the wrong person?
I find myself less and less inclined to expend my brain power calculating my latitude and longitude relative to the other guy. Admittedly, this is partially because I am one of those somewhat peculiar people who prize solitude. Not every waking moment, of
course. But some of my most soul redeeming and insightful experiences come in solitary moments.
As Kingsolver so eloquently points out, solitude as we think of it relates to the absence of other people. I frequently seek out the solitude of a woodland path, a serene meadow or a murmuring creek. I get rather perturbed if a chattering group of hikers disturbs my quiet communion with nature.
But I am far from alone at those moments. I am, in fact, recalibrating my senses to the frequency of other living things. I am most at peace when I am in tune with "the beetle life underfoot".
Peering through my binoculars at a tiny skipper (think very small butterfly) takes me to a place where the concerns of day to day life fade away. I can become wonderfully engrossed trying to determine if I can detect the pale spot band of a Crossline Skipper or the glassy white spot on the forewing of a Little Glassywing.
The scale of the world around me changes at these moments. Skyscrapers, multi-lane expressways and Wal-Mart's the size of football fields become blasé. There are an infinite number of small wonders awaiting me that change my perspective.
I am quite certain that my body moves with a different frankness when I embark upon these odysseys into the wonders of a few square feet of meadow. I only wish I could spend much more time in those explorations.
Solitude is really more of a presence than an absence for me. It is a presence I can only discern when I shut out the busyness, worry and self-consciousness of man-made things. Every tiny marvel of nature becomes a metaphor for sanity. I discover wisdom and
reason there which I'm often hard pressed to find in the things of man's making.
~ Michael Robert Dyet is the author of "Until the Deep Water Stills – An Internet-enhanced Novel" – double winner in the Reader Views Literary Awards 2009. Visit Michael's website at www.mdyetmetaphor.com or the novel online companion at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog . Visit www.smashwords.com to download a free preview of the e-book version.
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January 28, 2012
Precocious Memories of Small Scale Miracles
Hmmm, is memory simply fickle by nature or do certain moments connect with something primal in us?
Although I hate to admit it, my memory is becoming rather cranky with age. It decides what it does and does not want to record with a will entirely its own. I can be in the car five minutes from home, telling myself not to forget to stop and pick up milk, and still forget to do it. Notes on the table and in my shirt pocket are exercises in futility.
And yet, I can recall certain moments from months of years past with crystal clarity. Etched in mymemory like it was only yesterday…
A Silvery Blue Butterfly. A beautiful specimen perched so cooperatively on the pine needles at Kortright Centre for Conservation. Not the most striking of butterflies. But etched in memory for… the contrasts of soft blue in its wings and vibrant green in the pine needles it rested upon… the subtle blend of background shadow and foreground sunlight… the subtle markings of its feathery antennae…
A Unicorn Clubtail Dragonfly. Found at the back end of Ken Whellan Resource Management Area on a trail not much used. Not an uncommon sighting. But etched in memory for… Perched so elegantly on a bent stem of grass at the edge of the stream… Intersecting curves of grass stems arching over it as if in worship… Bulging green eyes, clubbed tail and clear wings with fine filaments of black…
A Hickory Hairstreak Butterfly. Awaiting me at Pinery Provincial Park on the shores of Lake Huron. Etched in memory for… the mere fact it is so seldom seen… the thin but graceful spot band arching across the wings… faint blue spot enclosed by orange chevrons… cluster of broad green leaves like hands bent in prayer…
A Giant Swallowtail Butterfly. One of hundreds on Pelee Island in August. Etched in memory for… the flash of sun-yellow against silky black… graceful perfection of its curving, white fringed wings… the peacefulness of its nonchalant pose at the edge of a woodlot…
These precocious memories will never leave me. They will always be within reach when I need to calm my troubled mind. My memory, it seems, is partial to metaphors. For each of these creatures is an indisputable metaphor for the wonder and beauty that exists in nature's boundless inventory of small scale miracles. So easily overlooked, but so unforgettable when once we behold them.
~ Michael Robert Dyet is the author of "Until the Deep Water Stills – An Internet-enhanced Novel" – double winner in the Reader Views Literary Awards 2009. Visit Michael's website at www.mdyetmetaphor.com or the novel online companion at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog .
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January 22, 2012
Alone on Top of the Mountain
Hmmm, is modern life by definition a no-holds-barred race to the finish line?
I certainly hope not. Don't get me wrong. Competition is a good thing within reason. It drives us to improve and to strive to reach our potential. It prevents us from becoming complacent.
But, somewhere along the way, the spirit of competition morphed into the spirit of domination. Remember the old saying: It is not whether you win or lose. It is how you play the game. It seems to me it has been reconfigured to be: It is not whether you win or lose. It is how completely you dominate your opponent in the process.
The corporate world is the role model in this regard. It is no longer about simply being profitable. It is about being dominant – about squeezing out your competition altogether or cutting them out of the equation.
Consider the publishing business. The corporate giants Amazon and Apple are working to cut publishing companies out of the business. They are leveraging technology to encourage authors to bypass publishers and publish directly with them. The spin doctor terminology for this wave is "the democratization of publishing" – which is good to a degree but very open to exploitation.
Category-buster stores like Walmart are on the same mission. Keep expanding into more and more areas – clothing, housewares, hardware, groceries, and on and on – amassing buying power as you go along until single category companies can`t match your prices and fall by the wayside.
"Bigger is better" is the new reality. Big box stores are dominating the retail space. If you want to survive, you have to gobble up somebody else.
But it's not my intention to launch into a rant about the greed of corporate giants. They are just the leading edge of a wave that I perceive. It's the "stand alone on the top of the mountain" wave that we seem to be caught up in.
Each time I step out the door, I have a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. The minute my feet hit the street, whether I like it or not, I'm in a race. If I don't get my elbows out and jostle for position, I'll be left behind and have to settle for the scraps. Or, even worse, I'll be trampled and kicked to the curb.
Every day the pace of the race gets a little quicker. Every day the rules of the race get a little more down and dirty. Every day the stakes become higher.
The argument can certainly be made that this is just the "survival of the fittest" principle at work. By this principle, some must fall by the wayside for others to survive and thrive.
It may be naïve. But I refuse to let go of the belief that this is not the way it has to be. There is a choice to be made. I can buy into the prevailing culture, put my head down and barge selfishly ahead. Or I can slow down, smell the flowers and hold out my hand to help my neighbour who is having trouble keeping up.
I can choose to reject the "alone on the top of the mountain" metaphor in favour of the "peace and good will in the valley below" metaphor. The top of the mountain is often a cold, windy and lonely place. The warm breezes and gentle meadows of the valley are much more to my liking.
~ Michael Robert Dyet is the author of "Until the Deep Water Stills – An Internet-enhanced Novel" – double winner in the Reader Views Literary Awards 2009. Visit Michael's website at www.mdyetmetaphor.com or the novel online companion at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog. Visit www.smashwords.com to download a free preview of the e-book version.
~ Follow Michael's Metaphors of Life Journal aka Things That Make Me Go Hmmm regularly at this site. Categories: Shifting Winds, Sudden Light, Deep Dive, Songs of Nature, Random Acts of Metaphor. Originating at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog2 .
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January 16, 2012
Ransom Heart
Hmmm, how long can a heart be held for ransom before it shakes off the shackles and breaks free?
A year ago I decided to explore that question in a short story. I borrowed a real life situation I had heard about and constructed a story around it. Mix in a bit of past indiscretions coming back to haunt the protagonist, a self-serving spouse who pushes the envelope a bit too far and a like-father-like-son guilt trip… the result is a short story called "Ransom Heart".
In December, I entered "Ransom Heart" in the Second Wind Publishing Short Story contest. I'm very pleased to announce that it made the list of three finalists. That's where all of you come into the equation.
The winner of the contest will be determined exclusively by "votes" placed at the contest site by January 31, 2012. "Votes" are made by leaving the name of the story as a comment on the short blog article at the link below.
My challenge to you: Access the contest site (see the link below), read the three stories that made the list of finalists and place your vote. Obviously, I hope you'll choose to vote for "Ransom Heart". But by all means, vote for the story you believe is the best one.
Click here for the contest page:
FYI. The winning story will be published in a Second Wind anthology.
And the metaphor… it's in the story, folks. Read and enjoy!
~ Michael Robert Dyet is the author of "Until the Deep Water Stills – An Internet-enhanced Novel" – double winner in the Reader Views Literary Awards 2009. Visit Michael's website at www.mdyetmetaphor.com or the novel online companion at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog. Visit www.smashwords.com to download a free preview of the e-book version.
~ Subscribe to "Michael's Metaphors of Life Journal aka Things That Make Me Go Hmmm" at its' internet home www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog2. Instructions for subscribing are provided in the "Subscribe to this Blog: How To" instructions page in the right sidebar. If you're reading this post on another social networking site, come back regularly to my page for postings once a week.
~ Send comments or questions to michael@mdyetmetaphor.com.
January 14, 2012
Frost Etchings on the Palette of My Window
Hmmm, has the January deep freeze, without a pure white mantle of snow, buried the wonders of nature beyond recognition?
Looking out my apartment window just now, I behold an endless pastel blue sky with only a thin wafer of grayish cloud hanging on the skyline. The late afternoon sun, falling at just the right mathematical angle, is rebounding off the windows of the adjacent building like a pair of flaming orbs.
I can convince myself for a wistful moment that it is mid-April and spring is unfolding in its youthful abundance. All of nature is awakening and answering the call to renewed life.
But, alas, the smoke billowing from the rooftop vents is coiling and curling petulantly in the biting winter air. I look down to see the threadbare trees standing naked in their January slumber. A few withered leaves and pine cones dangle from their lifeless limbs – haunting reminders of the autumn that is long past.
The ice cap on the pond is no longer just a delicate skin. It has become glassy and resolute – glaring in the sun inviting the flash of skates if I were so inclined. No hand-in-hand couples are to be found strolling the pathway that winds around it.
There is no snow on the ground yet to soften winter's edge – though it will doubtless come soon enough. Muted shades of brown, gray and fading green greet the eye. The sun begins to fail by 5:00, extinguished all too abruptly and expiring with little resistance.
There are no children dashing about in the park. No squeals of delight or peals of laughter. No soccer balls daisy-cutting over the grass and through the gardens. The bicycles, skateboards and scooters are packed away for winter's keeping.
The joy and merriment of Christmas is past. New Year's celebrations are behind us. We are in winter lockdown. Retreating behind our locked doors and double-paned windows. Hunkering down to wait out the season.
It is the January deep freeze from which there seems to be no release. And yet, as I stand at the window and chronicle the woes of the season, I behold a reprieve.
Frost has formed on the corner of the window. It is an art form with its own intrinsic beauty. Intricate swirls, extravagant flourishes and subtle brush strokes from a hidden hand of wondrous artistry. Crystal patterns, no two quite alike, glitter and sparkle in the last of the day's sunlight.
I begrudgingly admire this delicate expression of the softer side of winter. It is a metaphor for the beauty that abides in nature even in the icy fingers of January. I can't help longing for the return of spring. But winter does have its moments.
~ Michael Robert Dyet is the author of "Until the Deep Water Stills – An Internet-enhanced Novel" – double winner in the Reader Views Literary Awards 2009. Visit Michael's website at www.mdyetmetaphor.comor the novel online companion at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog.
~ Subscribe to "Michael's Metaphors of Life Journal aka Things That Make Me Go Hmmm" at its' internet home www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog2. Instructions for subscribing are provided in the "Subscribe to this Blog: How To" instructions page in the right sidebar. If you're reading this post on another social networking site, come back regularly to my page for postings once a week.
~ Send comments or questions to michael@mdyetmetaphor.com
