[OSList] A Christmas Tale of Self-Organisation

Elisabeth Tepper Kofod via OSList oslist at lists.openspacetech.org
Fri Dec 26 05:43:41 PST 2014


Thank you, thank you, thank you!
And May compassion fill our hearts truthfully!
Love
Elisabeth

*E**lisabeth **T**epper **K**ofod*
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On Fri, Dec 26, 2014 at 12:28 PM, paul levy via OSList <
oslist at lists.openspacetech.org> wrote:

> Dear all
>
> Wishing you a happy winter season, Christmas (if you celebrate it) and
> fulfilling New Year.
>
> Below is a little winter tale for Christmas. I wrote it last year - it is
> essentially about self-organisation in Nature, particularly enjoying the
> essential notion of "self".
>
> I hope you enjoy it.
>
> warm wishes
>
> Paul Levy
>
>
> *The Tale of the Squirrel*
>
> In the heart of the Ashdown Forest stands one of the oldest Oak Trees in
> England. Here, Winter settles with its full force, a moon-white frost lying
> at dawn until the November sun is high over the Kent horizon, teasing its
> way through the thick canopy of trees, bereft of leaves in the late Autumn
> cold.
>
> The Oak tree is home to several families of grey squirrels who burrow
> through crackling leaves and cold, damp moss hillocks, and mazes of
> overgrown roots.
>
> Here, a squirrel of some six summers was foraging for acorns, building his
> store for the coming winter, which would bring no snow but much icy rain
> and chilling winds which would whip through the forest, creating
> fern-swirls, and a furious circle-dance of brown leaves.
>
> The Squirrel already had a place to shelter through the winter though,
> since the warming of the land around, his hibernation would be in fits and
> starts. Nevertheless, it is secret place of cosy, warmth. Squirrels, more
> than any other animal in the forest, can feel cosiness.
>
> On this day, the 30th of November, Winter’s approach is keenly felt by the
> animals inhabiting the ancient forest, and the Old Oak knows it in its root
> and sap.
>
> *But something terrible has happened.*
>
> The Squirrel of Six Summers who, if he had a name, would be called Mr
> Curious, for that would best enfold his particular nature and behaviour, is
> in trouble. Whilst foraging among the roots at the foot of the Great Oak, a
> branch has fallen, weakened the night before by a pair of barn owls,
> resting on their flight back to the farm buildings near Hoathly Hill.
>
> The squirrel’s back leg is trapped – not broken – but Mr Curious cannot
> move. For many hours, since the earliest moment of dawn, Mr Curious has
> lain, wrapped in a clammy coat of fear, unable to move, now feeling the
> chill in his tiny bones. All about him rove fellow squirrels; they look at
> him, noses twitching in the icy air, indifferent to his anguish. In a few
> days, if the little creature cannot free himself, he’ll be finished, and
> there’ll be more acorns for his fellows to store for the coming Winter
> season.
>
> Mr Curious pulls and pulls, trying to free his leg, but it is no use. His
> companions would try to free him, but it is not in their nature to serve
> each other so. Their love is in their fur, not their hearts, and they
> cannot direct it, except in the early days of bringing forth their kith and
> kin in the dream of golden Spring.
>
> Now, it has begun to rain, and grey Mr Curious is hungry and shivering
> with the growing chill. Night is approaching and there will be other fears
> to be curious about.
>
> Now listen, and you might hear it!. (Though you’ll hear only its effects,
> in the subtle change in the wind’s cry, or the quickening of the rustle of
> oaken branches). Something is flying through the air, trunk-height, fast as
> a forest fairy, though not a fairy. Usually they do not fly so low; they
> drop, like falling stars, tearing past the sunlit side of the moon, arcing
> earthwards. They find their mark like a homing bird, or Cupid’s arrow.
> Their light can be seen, if you still all of your concerns, a flash of
> yellow gold in the corner of your eye. They are like wisps, though they fly
> with more purpose, there is no hint of drifting about them.
>
> *For this is the soul of a young girl, a babe not yet born, finding its
> way from the fixed stars, looping around the near planets, past the milky
> moon, then plunging to earth, before speeding through the clear night air
> to the union of its mother- and father-to-be, the moment where spirit spark
> ignites passion, and the universe is realised once again, through the
> alchemy of the One in All.*
>
> Through Ashdown Forest, you’d see the beam of golden light, flashing
> through the trees and skimming below the branches, just above the line of
> ferns and gorse bushes. The shimmering sprite-form travels quicker than
> sound, though slower than light, and would dance past the great Oak Tree,
> oblivious to the plight of poor Mr Curious, his bushy grey tail now sodden
> and bedraggled in the driving rain of November.
>
> Dance past it would, but it halts in its flight of purpose; for a fleeting
> moment it stays its course. For each soul, coming to conception is unique,
> bearing with it its own unfolding story. And this soul bears, amid its
> bright-golden sheen, a hint of violet, the hue of compassion.
>
> As the spirit-child stops, mid-air, the rain ceases its fall, droplets
> hanging like jewels on a chandelier. The air itself comes to peace, and a
> golden light spreads over the Old Oak, across the leafy mulch, over the
> little grey squirrel in pain, and through the hearts of a host of squirrels
> nearby. In the time it takes for two lovers to kiss, and to share their
> love into the creation of another universe, compassion enters the glade of
> Ashdown forest, and Christmas comes early.
> Then the rain splashes down once more and the light is gone, on its way to
> his goal, the wind angrily reclaims its rightful place on the air, and
> whipping up a storm about the Old Oak.
>
> But if you were a wood-elf, you’d be in your bower, and spy something very
> strange and wonderful. As the golden soul flies towards a warm bed of two
> lovers, three grey squirrels are kicking with their back legs at the fallen
> branch, riding its circularity, like beavers on a log, floating on a river,
> and the heavy wood is rolling away from Mr Curious, freeing his bruised but
> otherwise unharmed little back left leg, and he is able to scramble free.
>
> In those few moments, four squirrels are aware of their true compassion,
> awake now, in heart and tiny head, they are nuzzling around each other and
> making tiny noises that would sound to a storyteller like laughter and
> chatter.
>
> Then their noses twitch in the wind, ears turn in heads keen and alert for
> nearby forest noises heard on the breeze, and they gather up acorns in
> their mouth-pouches, and scamper their separate ways, in search of their
> cosy leaf and fern beds, warm and safe in the approaching winter’s night.
>
> The End
>
>
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