Beverly's Chrestomathy

Beverly's Chrestomathy According to my dictionary which is Webster's New Collegiate, a chrestomathy is a collection of writings by an author. Welcome to my collections. I formerly blogged on Multiply.com and socialized there as well. When that site changed I stumbled and bumbled like the b that begins my name. It begins many names including one that others use derisively such as bitch which is a female canine. Wolves are wild and free. They are wonderful examples of social security. I am an alpha she who mated against my will on too many occasions to be considered sane.My anger frightens all but the innocent. That is as it should be in my opinion.

The She

Grandmother had forgotten many of her lessons but her eyes still sparkled with wisdom, truth and humor. To see them sparkle so in the firelight was almost electrical like the reflection of a thunderstorm. Spirits enveloped her like playful gusts and breaths of wind, each wanting her favor. Of course she had favorites. She remembered them best of all. Some, long forgotten and left on the top shelf 

since last season reappeared and renewed the magic of 'when'. She had been so very young, so full of dreams, as naive as any child. Protected and loved by her father, raised by an alpha bitch. she was able to defend herself and her cub but fear of man kept her obedient to man's laws. So much power in such a frail old vessel. She smiled to herself and patted the small boy's head.
"Love is the most powerful medicine in all creation, boy" her soft furry face was pale against the darkness beyond the fire's reaching fingers. They danced as if alive casting black shadows on the hard packed earthen floor beneath the old one and four small boys. Three lay sleeping and dreaming a safe distance from errant sparks but the older light haired boy had snuggled next to her ample bulk and sat twirling her long silver hair between his delicate fingers.
"It was a promise to love, no matter what, that brought the first women to this planet. Women have always been foreign to men"

The old woman continued stroking the man child of her son who had once listened as intently to her stories as his only child now listened. The boy breathed so silently and deeply that grandmother knew he waited for her to continue. When she didn't, he prompted her with a question.

"Grandmother, did children exist when this world was created?"

The grandmother's wrinkled, dry hand with thick white nails paused mid stroke. The fire hissed, snapped then crackled loudly. The spirits became restless and chased sparks high into the tunnel of darkness leading straight as the barrel of a gun to the stars beyond. The chimney would need sweeping before the next season but this would be her last with the children. Their grandmother had nearly given up her dream of peace on earth but she held on for the sake of the children. Her voice was low and deep, almost a growl becoming a purr. "No child, children were gifts of the goddess for the promise of love. Love is naturally maternal. Men need to be taught. Even as the evidence of his failure to learn destroys his future on this planet, he seeks to deny and escape the consequences of his own folly. He reaches for the stars and denies accountability"

Somewhere, further down the hill at the main lodge, family had gathered to commemorate the old woman's success in finally being published. Her one request had been that she be allowed to spend a quiet evening with her grand ones. Surely, an evening of campfire stories, warm milk and freshly baked cookies for little boys who truly believed in the magic of Christmas and grandmothers wasn't so much to ask. If there was never peace anywhere else, didn't her long, lonely years deserve this one night? Persuading her children was impossible. It had taken a court order and a published accountability of the damages they'd done to themselves and each other. It was already a best seller. Soon, there would be no place where she wasn't known. It was a worse nightmare than any Stephen King had ever imagined. She needed space to expand her mind; they wanted to lock her away.

     The boy knew as he had always known what would happen. It had caused him many nights of terror. Knowing is more terrible than the bliss of innocence and ignorance. Why create universities when the universes provide all that is needed to create? There is no death except as created by man with his nightmares and his own inhumanity. It is self created, self destructive, malicious, insidious and terrifying beyond tolerance. He had to learn to tune out the evil which truly was the ego of self hatred seeking to destroy itself. 

    The boy remembered clutching the sun and the moon on a sturdy golden chain around grandmother's neck when he was barely toddling. He remembered Daddy screaming at her over the telephone. He knew she understood and endured horrible pain and loneliness rather than expose him to any more of it. He knew every tear his grandmother ever shed. His heart would surely have ceased to beat in infancy were it not for her will. her forgiveness that bade him to be strong. 

It takes a courageous child to continue to live in a world at war. It is a gift of love and it is always maternal. Without her, there was never HOPE. Through her, he continues. The boy lifted his head from the satin gown covering her lap, "Grandmother, will you always love me?"

     Her hand strokes had ceased as the fire died to embers glowing in the hearth. The spirits gathered like a net collecting their essences. Surrounded in a peace as foreign as she, herself, they lifted and carried her promise of ever after all the way home.


    What is heaven? Is it not love, ever after? Follow ME. Lift up your hearts. Be filled with music and all that is beautiful. If you have nothing to lose except your soul, cherish your soul as I do because each is more precious than any other. Forgive each other as I have forgiven. Let it be ME and love that you cherish. Money burns. Love burns like an eternity in Hell when you deny my love. I am she because she means love in my chrestomathy. Many dictionaries don't recognize all words but all words recognize authors. A chrestomathy is a collection of writings by a particular author whether or not they are ever published. Who in Hell you think you are matters more than who anyone else thinks you are. I know ME better than anyone else. If you don't know me, you may still recognize me by heart. That feeling is as unique to you as it is to anyone else. You know what love feels like. It doesn't hurt until its rejected. Rejecting love is the way you choose to lose. You can choose to win.

Grandmother was ready to begin again. It was time to put away her old ways and old ideas. They had filled libraries with the truth about evil and where it lived. Men's hearts had always been corrupted by greed and jealousy until only her forgiveness and love could cure their disease. They never would admit their mistakes. They were weak. They were human. They worshiped themselves to destruction in every corruption of nature. They played as gods and abused their goddesses. It was time to teach love as she knew it needed to be taught. The hardest lessons are the hardest losses but nothing teaches love better than Kokopelli's flute.
"Come, children! Follow me. We're dancing through the galaxies like sparks of love to enlighten all creations."

     A rainbow's arch appeared in the indigo night over a cozy little cottage in western Maine near the Appalachian trail. A long curl of wood smoke from a stone chimney was suddenly dancing with sparks that disappeared faster than butterflies in a summer garden. A low wind blew through wooden pipes as they tinkled the chimes. The dance has begun.