THE WHEEL OF CREATIVITY

What has Life given you today to create with?

Last week, as I left the sushi takeaway near my flat, I stepped out onto the sidewalk and turned toward home. Suddenly I realized, out of the corner of my eye I had glimpsed something extraordinary. I turned back to see a tiny bird’s nest in the middle of the sidewalk. No bird in sight. I had almost missed it.

Instead I turned back, picked it up, and held it carefully between two fingers. The walk home, with this tiny treasure in my hand, was an impromptu lesson in how precious life can be, and how easily we can miss it.

I found a nest once before, on the driveway of our house in England, where it now sits on our living room bookcase. This is a very different place. Trees – aside from the stereotypical scattered palms – are less common here. The raw materials available to birds here are different.

Today’s nest is smaller. Both nests are uniquely beautiful. But this one is made almost entirely of feathers, with only a small internal structure of twigs to hold them in place.

As I walked home, I couldn’t help thinking that while the twigs provide a delicate structure for the nest, the bird who built this nest then plucked her own soft feathers to complete it. That spoke to me. What she created had her in it. And the words rose spontaneously within me, “Feather your nest.”

Birds must use the materials at hand to make their nests. They use what’s around them and weave it all together with elements of themselves. It’s their nature. They migrate. They settle. They nest. They create a family. They let it go. And then they do the same thing again, year after year.

I am fond of saying, when speaking with people about the Wheel of Creativity, that our circumstances are the raw materials with which we create our lives. My circumstances are different than yours. They are different than they were a year ago. And we all have our preferences.

Some circumstances may produce more comfortable nests than others. But each year, each day, each moment, it is in your human nature to create something new… to feel the longing, to build the nest, to give birth to something new, to set it free, and then to move on to the next thing. This is the natural creative cycle of life.

All we have to do is look to Nature to know that we are creative, and to understand how to live creatively. To my knowledge, birds do not argue with Nature. They do not wait for perfection. They feel the calling. They start the family. They build the nest. They do the work. They set their children free. And they sing.

Life wants you to create. Life is constantly seeking to perpetuate itself through you. You may prefer to wait until things are just so before you act. But in the end, if you are to have a nest in your life, you will create it.

What a privilege, this experience of being alive. What materials has life given you to make your nest today? What will you add of yourself to make the world a more beautiful place?

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It’s Easter Sunday. My step kids have gone home. And my husband is at sea. So I decided to get myself up from the computer where I’ve been spending a lot of time lately and go for a walk.

I took my iPod to keep me company and stave off those lonely holiday blues. But no sooner had I closed the door behind me than Life grabbed me by the senses. I was so impressed; I could not put the earbuds in my ears.

So off I went, down the quiet tree-covered lane I like to walk, with Life as my close companion, resurrecting me by the senses, restoring my connection with it in the creativity of Nature all around me.

Life’s raw improvisation, as I moved through it, was more exciting than any creative composition I had heard before. A few notes…

• Birds with such beautiful voices they could have taught me to sing
• Winter-stricken trees dressing up in new Spring greens and pastels
• The deep green bush sharing its pink camellias with the sidewalk below
• The little two-seater prop plane flying along the beach
• The man in the red sweatshirt who turned onto the lane ahead of me
• Five boys on bicycles discovering the depths of new voices
• Crossing the street, an untended green belt between me and the beach
• Meandering paths through mossy mounds of earth slightly lower than me
• A mini-prairie covered with bushes bursting with tiny yellow flowers whose scent reminded me of my childhood in Texas
• The sounds of hard wheels hitting the steel waves of the local skateboard park
• Stripes of colorful beach huts framing the seaside just beyond
• Then the sea, its perpetual percussion stirring up stones on the beach
• The long, wide beach at low tide, sandy patches stripped bare of stone by the waves
• Seagulls returning to the water, squawking at me for disturbing their peace
• A dozen smaller birds, for whom I was an excuse to catch the wind one more time, flying and soaring longer than was necessary
• The thundering roar of the roller coaster at the local Family Fun Fair
• The chute flying ahead on the beach, telling me there was at least one kite surfer out today
• The rich carpet of fresh green grass as I turned back toward home.

Another lane, with different birds, different trees, different flowers; and the story was the same. Life was beckoning me to live it, to feel it with all my senses, to appreciate the incredible richness of this moment. I could not have been lonely if I tried.

Wherever you are today, whomever you’re with (or not with), your world is equally as rich, your senses equally as hungry. So just for this day, step back from the computer, leave the iPod at home, and let Life in… in… in, to resurrect your senses with all that’s around you, and reconnect you with Life itself.

Happy Easter.

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Some days I just feel so much love for the Earth.

Today I was out for a walk, because the sun was out for a few minutes this morning. I had a plan to go one way and got to a turning point and turned a different way. I thought I would come back by way of the village, and instead I turned toward the beach.

I was looking for windsurfers. But when I got to the beach, there weren’t any. So I had this huge expanse of desolate, isolated beach with nobody on it. And it was low tide. The beach was really wide. And so I stopped and I danced.

It reminds me very much of my mermaid impressions, which I do in the sea. It’s the same thing, but the sea was just a bit farther out today. And then there was a piece of sea glass on the beach, which I’ve never found here before. It was an amazing experience.

I realize now that this is the way I make myself feel at home, by touching the earth where I am, putting my feet down, saying, “I’m here,” and experiencing myself in the place where I am. And so it’s been really quite amazing this morning. Surprising. I feel welcomed here… much more than I would if I had had coffee with a friend or had any of the things I think I need. It’s so simple.

Thank you, Earth.

Every moment is like a piece of sea glass. We can either stop and pick it up and count it as precious, or we can pass it. When we’re not present, when I’m not present, I miss all the little jewels of life, like the bird that just flew through my picture as I was taking a picture of my hand.

Life can be magic.

And for those of us who are fortunate enough to be in the place to think about that, let us not fail to do so.

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I suppose I was in a romantic mood. Less than 24 hours after my husband’s return from seven months at sea, we sat at Le Safari on the Cours Saleya in Nice. We just escaped a downpour of rain that had been building since we left the beach an hour earlier. The fruit and vegetable vendors tore down their stalls as the world-famous marché closed for the day, and street cleaners washed everything down.

I’m not sure exactly when I spotted it, but there among the tourists, locals and Saturday workers was a small blue balloon, caressing the bricks of the sidewalk as it floated along. Being a lover of anthropomorphism, I immediately assigned it feelings and thoughts and even a personality. I watched it follow the wind. I observed its effect on the world around it:  the masculine response was to kick it – sometimes gently, sometimes violently – while the children just wanted to play. One moment it was at the far end of the street; the next, carried along by the feet of many strangers, it had returned to my side.

I couldn’t help thinking of the 1956 film by French filmmaker Albert Lamorisse called, Le Ballon Rouge. The Red Balloon won the Palme D’Or at Cannes for Best Short Film, and Lamorisse won the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay for his 34-minute film with almost no dialogue. The film told the story of another balloon, born the same year I was, which befriends a young Parisian boy named Pascal, accompanying him around the city, following him home and to school, until a gang of jealous bullies destroys it.

As the street cleaners made their way through the market today, I heard the same dreaded sound Pascal had heard. Above the twitter of tourists, the stir of place settings and the motors of vendor vehicles, the pop of the blue balloon rang out. And then it was gone.

And that made me think of how similar we humans are. On the day my mother died, as her body lay lifeless in her home hospital bed, I felt the same thing. She is not there. The body is worn out, but the life goes on.

Today, sitting joyfully with my husband at the market, I saw once again that life is more than all this stuff. Life is not the blue balloon, but rather the air that fills it. That blue balloon gave a small bit of air the chance to move through and relate to the world. Our bodies do the same for us. As a tiny shred of blue lay motionless on the ground, the air that had filled it simply returned to its source.

Is it not the same for us? Is not our effect on the world made possible by our sense of separation from it? Do we not have a limited-time offer to make our impact? And when we are gone, does that impact not continue in the hearts and minds of those who’ve met us on the street? Each of those encounters is an opportunity to create something! Enjoy the ride!

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This has been a tough week for me.  I could cite circumstances and reasons, but the real difficulty has come in my response to them. So I’ll just go directly there, and save us both the boredom.

One of the most intimate pieces of advice I’ve ever received about writing (and it holds true for just about everything else in life too) is:

“You can’t take someone where you haven’t been yourself.”

I guess that little ditty sits at the heart of what I’m up to in the world. It’s the launch pad for my thoughts about the creative journey we’re all on in life. For me, and I believe for all of us, it gives meaning and context to the inevitable peaks and valleys along the way.

In my Creative Process Group this week we’ve been working with the second gate in the Wheel of Creativity™… Chaos. Chaos is the far side of the Wheel, as far from the metaphorical Home as you can get. If Home is what is known, ordered, stable and predictable, then Chaos is unknown, disordered, unstable and unpredictable. Yet, throughout all of Nature—from the origins of the universe, to the regeneration of our cells—it is the creative void from which all things come to be.

In the past 30 days, the word chaos appeared more than 10,000 times in the text of the New York Times online. A few tidbits from the headlines:

• Chaos in Yemen
• The Chaos of War
• Anti-Chaos Crusaders
• Chaos of Internet
• Signs of Chaos in Syria
• Bloody Chaos

…along with:

• Creating Amid Chaos
• Creations of Poetry and Chaos

The world is currently undergoing an enormous and sweeping transformation. In times of Chaos, the forms we have known dissolve, releasing energy from which new forms are created. It is a creative process, but not an easy one. The point of Chaos is a fragile time, and what we do in these hours and days and months will determine whether it leads us to failure or a new way of life.

Chaos appeared in my life this week as disappointment and self-doubt, when Life threw me several unexpected curves. I have embarked on this journey consciously, and I am grateful to recognize this place and to know it is leading somewhere good. In order to take my group through the gate of Chaos, I must go through it again myself. Its infinite creative potential exists not only for them, but for myself, as once again I come through that gate and find my Life on the other side, and myself clearer and stronger than ever.

Where in your life does the instability and unknown of Chaos appear? What could your response to it be?

Be brave. Leave a comment.

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Today I am flying to France after two weeks in the UK. It’s the first time I have taken this route to the airport, and it involves taking a bus from the train to the airport. While waiting for this bus in the fresh Spring air of May Day, I find myself standing beside a tree.

As I like to do with plants, I move toward this tree to inquire about the condition of its health. I look at its leaves, and they look a bit dry to me, even this early in the season. I look for its roots; they are wedged into a small opening in the brick sidewalk. What kind of soil does it grow in? What is its exposure to the wind? How much sun and rain does it get?

I look again and see that the tree is growing inside a cylinder of iron bars. Why? It seems absurd to me. Is this an insurance requirement, for the protection of small children? Is it to keep the tree safe from theft? Is the cage to keep the tree in? Or is it to keep us out? I don’t know, but I feel sorry for the tree.

On closer inspection, I can see that this tree’s cage is its wound. Several of the branches are growing into the bars, the bars cutting into the tree’s flesh as it grows. And I wonder, how long has this been going on?

Today is the anniversary of my mother’s death. Fifteen years ago today at Noon (straight up), my mother left her body in a hospital bed in her small apartment in Houston Texas, and went wherever it is we go. She was a few months shy of 80 years old. She had lived a good life, full of hardships as well as achievements. And she fought for her very last breath.

Two days earlier. In that very same bed, she looked me in the eyes and said, “I never got my turn.” As a physician and a psychiatrist, she lived her life listening to and caring for others. But she never gave herself permission to express her innermost self.

I remember thinking that afternoon as I sat with the empty shell of her body, as the fluid of her cancer-ridden cells drained into the bed sheets, that she had just worn her body out and it was time for her to go.

It occurred to me that day that life is a continuously flowing river. Our parents give us the vehicle that carries our spark of life in the world. We grow in a woman’s womb until it is too small, and then we are born. We continue to grow from children into adulthood and on into old age, until our vehicles become too small again. And then we shed them like worn-out skin and move into whatever new and larger form waits for us beyond this one.

My mother’s words of regret have guided me in these past 15 years to:

• Know that life is precious and I have a choice about how mine turns out
• Make it a priority to know what I want to express in the world and do it
• Give voice to my fear and doubt but never let them stop me

Sometimes the things we construct to protect us end up harming us in the end. Sometimes we need room to grow. And we must free ourselves from these unyielding constructions to have it. If my mother was not able to do this for herself, then my life can give dignity to hers if I take down the bars she could not.

I have always loved these words from George Bernard Shaw:

This is the true joy in life…

The being used for a purpose, recognized by yourself as a mighty one.

The being a force of nature… instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.

I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community… and that as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can.

I want to be thoroughly used up when I die.  For the harder I work, the more I live.

I rejoice in life for its own sake.  Life is no brief candle to me.  It is the splendid torch, which I’ve got a hold of for the moment.  And I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.

What is your splendid torch? What are the bars that keep you safe? Bring them down.

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The concrete jungle has hardened our hearts.

We do not feel our impact on the Earth anymore. We eat the meat of animals without seeing them die. We drink liquid chemicals denying their potential to harm us. We produce tons of trash every day without owning our land fills.

We accumulate things we do not need or cannot use because they please our senses. And we throw them away when they bore us. We say we “love” these things, but we love with greedy minds, and our hearts lie waiting for the real thing. We take risks with things that do not belong to us, and then deny responsibility for the consequences.

We have lost our respect for Life.

Seven years ago, I participated in my first Sweat Lodge on a secluded piece of fertile land in Provence. Our guide was a French man named Bison Noir (Black Buffalo), trained for decades by Native American elders in Arizona. I find it ironic that I was thousands of miles from home when I first experienced one of the most powerful rituals of America’s first nations. I did not learn it in my home tribe.

Part of the ritual was to gather small offerings from Nature for the altar at the entrance of the lodge. We were taught to do this with awareness, appreciation and respect for the land, to take only a small amount of any single plant and pass six more before taking another.

As I took my first steps out into the vibrant green jungle around the lodge, I awakened. I realized for the first time that I could not take one step without crushing something beneath my foot. All the tiny plants I saw, and the things I could not see that crawled within them, were vulnerable to my footstep. This grieved me. I felt my impact. Between one step and the next, I was deeply humbled.

It is a privilege just to be here… and a responsibility.

When I lived in Chicago, I produced an episode of The 90’s documentary television series, on Guns and Violence. I will never forget the first time I heard a professor describe what many children in our world live daily, growing up where “it is normal for them to see bodies on the street with red liquid flowing out of them.”

I also worked with some of those children, who described in their essays burying their brothers and sending their cousins off to jail. We made a play of those essays, and they performed it for a packed house in their local community. That was 20 years ago; today, children who don’t live in these places visit them regularly in pixels. How can we expect our children to value life if we do not?

America is squandering its original blessing. We take what is not ours and then we throw it away. We try to make amends for our irresponsibility with guilt and ideological superiority. But we do not listen. Our way of life is not sustainable either for the Earth or for us. And if we, in all our sophisticated naiveté, do not learn to listen, we will make ourselves extinct.

My dear friend Barbara startled me the other day with a thought she had read. If one small fly becomes extinct, hundreds of other species will die with it. If humankind were to become extinct, the rest of Nature would thrive.

Why are you on the planet?

The creative process is not a process we control. It is something we are all a part of. It is bigger than we are. We have an impact on its unfolding. But Life will go on, long after we are gone. We may destroy the forms we know today. We may destroy ourselves. But something will spring up in our places. In the end it is—we are—all disposable.

There is always a point in the creative process when we lose control. How we respond in that moment is either creative or destructive. We make the choice.

Walk softly on the Earth… not only for the sake of all the lives you touch—your impact on the world—but for your own sake as well. The heart must be touched to grow softer. Let it all in, whatever passes through your life today. Feel your connection with it.  You are not alone.

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Last night, as I was removing the lid from a scorching-hot oven dish, I was stunned into slow time as the escaping steam engulfed the fingers on my right hand. By the time I got the glass lid down onto the counter and my hand under the coldwater tap, four fingers were badly burned.

I was frightened. I felt the panic in my heartbeat and heard the little-girl whimpers escaping my lips. I wanted to cry; but it was as if the responses were coming from someone else. As soon as I noticed that, after about 10 seconds, I let go. I decided to look for Life and its creative force instead.

It is a technique I first heard from a meditation teacher I met only once 15 years ago. She was out for a walk with her husband on the huge red boulders of Southern California, when he slipped off the edge and tumbled down the canyon wall. Spontaneously, she yelled to him, “Go to God!” I guess he must have, because he walked away.

Last night, I went to Life. It wasn’t a prayer exactly, but a choice to open and allow and receive. Slow time continued through the evening, as I sat with my hand in cold water and waited to see just how bad this burn was. The night was moistened with waves of excruciating pain, as my fingers grew swollen and redder. I slathered them in aloe and slept with a sock on my hand, conscious of its placement through the night. This morning, there is redness, stiffness, tenderness, but no blisters and no deep burn. I am truly grateful to be typing.

Last night’s opportunity is the counterpoint to one that came at the start of the week. Sunday afternoon, while doing dishes, I found a ladybug in the kitchen sink. I must have picked her up in the back garden and brought her in on my clothes, but here I was about to drown her.  I stopped everything and took her on my right hand to the sun. I wasn’t sure she was even still alive, but then she started to stretch her wings. It was a sweet moment. For about 10 minutes I sprawled out on the floor and enjoyed her company; I think she enjoyed mine because she would not let go until I put her back in her place in the garden.

Having earned my keep as a professional writer for more than 25 years, my hands and fingers are particularly important to me. Twice this week, they have been my teachers. They have reminded me in my very body what I know to be true… that the Creative Force of Life is flowing to me and through me all the time. It is flowing to you. Every breath you take, every moment’s experience is an opportunity for personal transformation.

Just Say Yes!

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Today, as floodwaters sweep people’s lives away in some of the Earth’s most beautiful countries, my heart is swirling with sadness, concern and gratitude. In yesterday’s New York Times, a Reuters report showed the devastation of the Countries Hit by Widespread Flooding. More than a million people have been affected by the flooding, as hundreds of dams have burst under the pressure of La Nina’s heavy rains.

Those images turned the already heartbreaking images of recent weeks more personal. Sri Lanka appeared first among them. This morning I sent a text message to our beloved Sinhalese friend Kamal, to know how he is. I still have had no response.

Here in England, the rain is pouring too. I am safe and warm. The streets are clear. Everything is working. But, with friends out there unprotected and out of touch, I cannot relax. I can only hope.

In 1994, I was visiting a friend in Los Angeles when, in the middle of the night, her dog became ill and woke us both with an episode of violent convulsions. We were only two miles from Northridge, the epicenter of a major earthquake months earlier; and I couldn’t help thinking of the Earth as a living being too. Just like my friend’s dog, I wondered if the Earth’s reactions – quakes, floods, volcanoes… – could be her body’s way to stabilize a system out of balance. Nature has her equalizing forces, as capable of destruction as creation.

Destruction is an essential part of the creative process of Life. Though this idea is consistently denied by Western cultures, older cultures recognize its necessity and Science is now proving it. Throughout Nature, from the stars in the heavens to the cells in our bodies, dissolution of one physical form releases the energy from which new forms are created. We participate in this process, but we do not control it.

It is a very American trait, I find, to place personal fulfillment (which I firmly and wholeheartedly endorse) above the common good. Self-actualization is so much a part of the fabric of American culture that its imbalances often lie hidden. And then we wonder why our systems are sweeping our lives away. I wonder if the costs of our myopia are sweeping away the lives of others we shall never meet.

In the prophetic words of an original American, Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce tribe, “Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect. Man does not weave this web of life. He is merely a strand of it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.”

Today I am grateful for one of those things we in the West take for granted. Good drainage. Before today, I would have never thought to add it to my daily gratitude list; today, as I wait for a text from Kamal, I certainly will. But my personal gratitude is the shallow water in a river running much deeper through the world – the interconnectedness of all living things on the Earth.

Today, as I see the news, I am reminded of my chance passage across the English Channel last month with the wise man from India who laughed at our arrogance to think that we can ever be a match for Nature. At the end of the day, the question to ask may not be, “Will we destroy our planet?” The question may be, “Will our planet destroy us?”

The Wheel of Creativity is a look inside the creative process of Life. We do participate in the unfolding of Life, and our choices make a difference. Today it asks:

• What is the larger effect of my actions on the planet?
• How am I creating and destroying?
• What will Nature need to do to stabilize herself when I am gone?

P.S. 15 January 3:54 PM GMT.  A text from Kamal:  ”Thank u for finding about us. we haven’t any trouble from flood. Polonaruwa and baticio peoples faced it. Budusaranai. [May the Lord Buddha protect you.]“

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Being a city girl most of my life, I have cherished my experiences of country living, not only for the slower pace, but also for the wildlife I discovered there. This time of year, I can’t help thinking of a certain species whose season only lasts for a short time at the end of October. This week’s blog is devoted to a young lad I met a few years ago who asked me to share his tale with kind-hearted people like you. This is his story.

“Hi!  My name is Jack. Katherine said she’d help me ask you cuz I didn’t know what else to do. I need your help. First, I want to invite you to a special place, a beautiful place, the only place I’ve ever known. Mama Earth rises and falls softly here. And all around us the sky’s clear and blue and the clouds watch over us like puffy angel wings. Mr. Wind is blowing strong now. The leaves are crisp from letting go of their trees. They’re lucky cuz they get to dance with him, back and forth, ’round and ’round. I feel lighter just watching them.

Every year the same thing happens again and again – Aunt Mimosa told me so. She’s not really my Aunt – we’re not related at all. But she kinda takes everyone around here under her arm. Even the kids from down the road come and sit with us sometimes. We all know it’s because of her, but we like them being here all the same.

Lately, more and more people are coming. Aunt Mimosa told us when it gets to be this time every year, lots of folks do. Everybody drives out in big cars to see us. They usually bring little children with them. I like little children. They look at us long and hard. They pick us up and turn us this way and that, holding us up by our hair, looking us over for… I’m not sure what.

Some people like the beautiful ones. But then again, if you’re looking for something other than what we are, I guess you’d find us all pretty ugly. Some of us are taller. Some are thicker around the middle. Some of us are even lopsided.  Some have brown spots in places. Some are more smoother. Even though we have the same skin, some of us are lighter and some are darker. Everybody seems to have something in particular they’re looking for. I just wish I knew what it was.

Farmer Max told us two weeks ago what this was all about. He likes having people drive out from the city – not the one with the courthouse, but the one where ol’ Joe goes in the truck on Tuesdays. Anyways, Farmer Max came out early on Sunday morning with his coffee. He walked up and down our rows for what seemed like hours to me – stooping over and patting us on our heads. Then he sat down. Farmer Max takes his time. And, as Grandpa Sun showed his face on top of the little hill that rises up to the road, he told us why we’re here.  He told us the people come out just once a year to see us, and to take us home.  It’s a kind of rich-el people do when the leaves let go. “You make ‘em happy,” he said. “That’s your porpoise.”

I kinda liked the sound of that – having a porpoise. But it’s scary, too. I mean, what can I do about it? Sit and wait. If only I had feet, I’d dance my way into their hearts. If only I had a voice, I’d sing them a beautiful ballad. If only I could write, I’d make a list of all the special things about me and tie it on my stem. I wish they could see inside me. I wish I could make them see how tender my heart is… what a beautiful smile I could have if the right person comes along to bring it out. But I can’t. There’s nothing I can do to get their attention, but sit here and be myself. That’s the hardest part, especially when I watch everybody else but me getting to go home with a family.

Yesterday, it was cousin Jane. They seemed like a nice enough family. They had the cutest little girl – little brown spots on her face kinda like mine, and pigtails on both sides of her head, and her hair was the same color as Molly – Farmer Max’s chestnut mare. She really did seem happy. Jane, I mean. We all want to be chosen. We can see with our own eyes how happy it makes the little children just looking at us.

I don’t understand though. They pick me up and look at me. They scratch me and thump me just like I see them doing with the others. But then they pick somebody else.  What if I don’t get a family?

I mean, it’s been 2 weeks now. Don’t get the idea I’m the only one left. I just don’t want to be the last one. It’s not only about not getting called. I’m just scared I won’t get my chance to show my own face to the world… to feel that warm glow inside… to go home with a family of my own and hang out in the kitchen… to play dress-up with all the little children… to hear them laugh and squeal and scream with delight. No one has ever come back to tell us what it’s really like. But Farmer Max seems like a good man, and I believe what he told us.

We only get one season, you know. And we all deserve a chance. Aunt Mimosa said so.

Katherine told me you might be able to help us. So, I’m asking you to come, and bring your friends, to Farmer Max’s Punkin Patch. Some families even pick 3 or 4 of us and take them all together – I’ve seen them. That’s really better, I think, cuz it’s not so scary, not so lonely.

Please come. It’s beautiful out here. Ol’ Joe says it’s really easy to get here from the city.  Just past the courthouse in the middle of town, you turn right, then left across the railroad tracks past Julia’s Junk Barn. Keep going a little after Mr. Cochran’s Holsteins. When you pass the Morgan twins’ matching trailer homes, start looking for Aunt Mimosa. She’ll be waving.

And there we are! There’s a fence of course, but the gate’s usually open. And nobody ’round here’d mind if you squeeze between the wires and c’mon in. Everybody’s welcome.  We love the company. Hurry though. There isn’t that much time left. Oh, and would you ask for me – they call me Little Jack. Little Jack O’Lantern. I’ll be looking for you. Cuz only you can save the Pumpkins.”

For years I’ve driven by pumpkin-studded parking lots in October without blinking. Now I always hear Jack’s little voice asking me to help. So this year, once again, I’d like to ask, even if you can’t make it out to Farmer Max’s, please support your local chapter of the Save the Pumpkins Fund.  You can make a difference.

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