Playing Fair and Being Kind

Felix Mendelssohn took a break from performing in London and visited Scotland. His boat trip to Fingal’s Cave in the Hebrides produced this music. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zcogD-hHEYs

My Scottish people come from this place. They lived in huts dug into the sides of low hills on the islands. In the winter they brought in their cattle to protect them. Not all. Many were turned loose to fend for themselves in the elements. Those that survived were tended in the Spring. The Matthews (my clan) were few in number and needed to join the MacKenzies for protection. The MacKenzies in turn were under the protection of the MacLeans on the islands of the Lesser Hebrides. The Isle of Muck and the Isle of Coll to be exact. During the hard times, the potato famine, many left for Nova Scotia, Cape Breton Island. My most favorite person, Mary MacKenzie was born on Cape Breton Island. I was named for her. We could barely understand each others accents. Hers was heavily filled with Gaelic sounds and mine was true Boston. We loved each other immensely.

Edit: 30 July 2017, I had the name wrong…Matheson, not Matthews. I talked with cousin Eddie Ramsdell today. He lives in Newburyport, Massachusetts. Eddie was born and raised in Rye, NH by his mom and dad, Connie Goodwin Ramsdell and Ralph Ramsdell. Connie was my father’s sister. Below is a link to a page that discusses the crossover of Matheson to MacKenzie.  You will need to copy and paste it into your browser.

http://archiver.rootsweb.ancestry.com/th/read/NS-CAPE-BRETON/2006-02/1141057479

Here is a story filled with much symbolism for me. It is a vision, a guided vision with ties to reality. The place is a section of woods in Kitsap County, Washington. The places I describe are real and probably don’t exist now because of land development. Here they still exist though and also in my mind. Crystal clear in fact. If you are curious someday I might share with you the story within this story. Have a lovely day. It is late and I am already dreaming of beautiful people whom I love. G. M. Goodwin 29 July 2017.

The Woods on a Hillside

In the woods on a hillside near Lake Symington. The lake is down the hill to my right and Green Mountain is to my left forming a wild challenge for another time. There is a well trod path beneath my feet and I am comfortably taking in my surroundings. I have just arrived at this spot because someone suggested I do so. I belong here. It is my temporary destination and I am slightly amused and ready for adventure. The path is open on both sides; deer fern line the way under a mix of second growth Douglas fir. There is a softness all around. The light, the sweet air, the lush undergrowth, the dampness and the small rivulets of water flowing next to me and over the path in low places combine to beguile. I find this place beautiful, full of grace and familiarity. Majestic more than magic it fills me with wonder.

A voice tells me to move forward so I choose a direction and walk uphill toward a more unknown destination. My director tells me I will find a selection of pottery and I do. Right there, next to this trail I am on I find a cache of old dishes and plates and bowls with a few cups thrown in for good measure. They are right there under the low growth amongst the ferns. The whole group is nearly buried in the soft moss that covers the ground here. All of the pieces appear to have cracked and crazed glazing and some are broken but not all. I gently lift a couple of the items and see they are clean, probably washed by someone decades ago and left here for future use, only the future is mine and only I can admire them. With great care I replace the pottery back into the depressions.

My eye catches a scene in miniature near where the pottery resides. I can’t help but smile and feel hilarity at the sight. It is a clear glass bottle lying on its side. Buried half into the ubiquitous moss of the forest floor its glistening crystal is cracked and broken but the shape is intact and there is something else that thrills me. The bottle is holding a miniature collection of plant life. There is a tiny garden of moss and lichen alive inside the bottle that has collected there lo the many years the thing has lain undisturbed. I need to touch this tiny treasure, to hold it and peer into the hole in the glass to see the world within. I sense something holding me that is akin to how I am holding this found object in my own hands. My mind records the scene in the bottle and I gently return it to its place.

I stand up straight and marvel at the richness of my little world. My eyes have been filled with fantastic images in just these few steps of my journey. I’m aware that my heart is softly singing and I am flooded in love. What is this place and why am I here? These questions are lost when I hear my manager tell me to look up and to record what I see.

I look up. I see the trees are growing so tall and straight their branches form a cathedral of leaves and limbs so that the sky is a pattern of blue light among the dark shapes. This covering imparts a feeling of protection as well as freedom. Although I am completely enclosed by the canopy I feel free to pass through to the outside without restraint. This is a happy place. The director of my journey suggest now that I move along to further explore this area. My steps take me upward along a trail with a few obstacles that are easily negotiated. I find this brief walk pleasurable. My attention is given easily to whatever presents during this stroll. The moss, the deer ferns which have been nibbled overnight, the darkness of the Douglas firs, the lightness of being of the aspen, all this and more as I slip along the dark floor.

The supervisory voice announces that I have come to an open field. It tells me to observe what is there. The field is in full sun and the grass is nearly knee high all the way across. There are flowers as well. They grow in harmony with the rest. My director guides my attention and I cross the field. The air is sweet with the smell of the grass heads and flowers. I feel the sun on my shoulders and back; it is comfortably warm. The field is not so large that I can’t see the other side so I take a direct route toward the opposite edge. The walk is not difficult. When I am nearly across the voice that is my conductor to this point tells me to look ahead. Do I see a fence or a wall? I see an ancient rail fence that makes a border for the field and my path.

I am directed to approach the fence and to go over it and this is the last direction I am given. This is the easiest part of the journey. I simply go to the fence and step over it. Just like that; there is a feeling of completion and accomplishment. I enjoyed my walk through the woods and across the field. I saw lovely things and I was able to reflect on the experiences along the way. I was not rushed. There were enough periods of rest so that I was refreshed as I traveled. I leave feeling genuinely satisfied with this image and it has been my companion since.

G. M. Goodwin

19 April 2015