Wisdom of the Wee Ones

Once upon a time, far at the end of a long, long, long runway, tucked in the middle of a dusty, dirty bean field just north of the mighty Missouri, and deep in the heartland of a great and ancient landmass, there was a little patch of clover.


It wasn’t particularly unusual, as clover patches go, but according to the word on the wind, there was something special about it.

It wasn’t even very big – just a few feet across. But if a passerby slowed down long enough to pay attention, one might see an entire world of activity busily taking place at ankle level. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much busy-ness in such a small space. Perhaps it was the clover that drew the masses. I’m not sure what it was, but it certainly had the attention of all the local wee ones.

Almost every stalk of grass or clover or twig or treacle had something crawling on it, up it, down it, over it. There were butterflies and beetles, ants and spiders, chiggers and chewers, moths and mosquitoes, grandmothers, aunts and uncles galore.

Rumor had it these little ones were wise.  Very, very wise indeed, in the ways of wee ones’ wisdom. There was no arguing here, no pushing, no shoving, no claims of “That’s MY flower!” If one crown was full, you merely bopped to the next one and kept right on going.

No mind was paid to the weighty ways of the world beyond. Each had its own work to do, its own purposes to accomplish, and each did his or her best, in its own small, contented way, just as it was meant to be.

040The little ones gave no heed to the giant creature among them, slow and obviously dim-witted in its lack of appreciation for all things clover. Occasionally one would land and take a nibble – perhaps it’s meant for eating? Hmm. No. Oh well.

And so the days would pass, one and then another and then another – long, hot eons of time as generations came and went, came and went, came and went. All was quiet, all was calm, all was well. Life was full. Life was abundant. And Life would always find a way.

And so, if you should ever happen to find yourself at the end of a long, long, long runway, tucked in the middle of a dusty, dirty bean field, just north of the mighty Missouri, deep in the heartland of a great and ancient landmass, stop for a minute. Slow down, and look at your feet, so deeply rooted there among the tufts and twists.

Do you see it?

How many wee ones can you count? I see at least six!

Yes – it’s still there – to this day! That very same little patch of clover. And if you should happen to think to say hello from Great Grandfather Singing Bug (he of the cicada cousins) from seventeen years ago, those present will look up and nod and smile in their own way. They know their roots. And they have not forgotten.

Someday, maybe, just maybe, I’d like to think that all of us two-leggeds may again be this wise. May we remember what we never really forgot – we just tucked it away for safe keeping. And if we’re *really lucky, may we remember it while sitting in the middle of a little clover patch, at the far end of a long, long runway. The one that led us home.


The world as they know it ~

(C) 2016 Mary Batson, FrontPorchRambles.com
All rights reserved – especially the one to stop and smell the clover.

Our Story

“Tell me the story again, Gran,” Mikey’s voice came from beneath her blankets. “You know – Our Story. Just one more time, please.”

Gran smiled down at the child she’d come to feel was her own, the better part of her that would someday walk the future with dreams of a new world.

“Of course, little Mikey,” she said, and so the story began…


“It was a time of great change, as pieces and parts began to crumble and break down, the old ways now outgrown. In this place, the people stirred and hearts awoke, and around the world energy began to flow in ways no one had ever imagined before.

“They called themselves co-creators,” Gran whispered conspiratorially, eyes flashing at the memory, the memory of the dream, the memory of the future. Mikey twittered with glee; she knew what was coming next. “They were the ones who felt the change coming, deep within their bones, even before they knew, somehow, someway.”

“Their problems drove them to it, the ones they themselves had created, whether by action or omission. At first many resisted, though they later came to see this awakening as the greatest blessing of all. For most it began on the inside, then spread in wider and wider circles, as each started to question, to search for answers, to find them, to find themselves, to find their hearts, to realize who they were and who they were capable of becoming, if they would only wake up to the possibilities they already held within.

“As the planet cried out, the people began to hear, and to listen, and to respond, calling forth creative genius as never before. Great artists and writers and musicians appeared, OurStory3pioneers and peacemakers, bringers together, innovators and inventors, each leading in their own way, and the world and everything in it began to change, as the people began to love each other, to bring out the best in each other, to find that seed of promise and hope that each carried and to water it, nurture it, give it whatever it needed to bring it into blossom, so each could share their gifts with the world.

“There were those who focused on the material pieces, the new places, new politics, new portals. There were those who focused on the inside, the builders of bridges between heart and mind, the balance seekers, and on and on it went, in every place and pocket of the world. And then there were those prayers and workers of miracles, the bringers of light who illumined the way, lightened the load, transmuting the Law of the Circle as they rose in transcendence above it, each working undauntedly in their own special roles, which only each person could know for themselves. When one task was over, the next would arise, and the people grew adept at listening and responding, ever awake, ever aware, never reacting in fear or in panic, no blind rushing forward, but in knowing how to sit in alertness, to listen, and to be ready to move when the river said GO.

“As they found their voices, their strength, their inspiration, they began to step out and step forward, first one and then the other and then the other, each finally understanding where their piece fit in the bigger picture, which often wasn’t where they had been trying to place themselves before, square pegs in round holes. When they quit forcing and started allowing, magic began to happen. Soon there were dozens, hundreds, thousands – no, MILLIONs of them – stretching around the globe, and as illusions faded, the picture began to dissolve and reshape itself into something magical, more beautiful than ever, as new structures and forms began to consolidate around the planet.

OurStory4“Together they came, in burgeoning bunches and bundles of joy. Hearts beating as one as the threads came together, woven in magnificent collective mosaics, and the world began to blossom in unexpected, unimagined ways, and the people were pleased and felt at peace as they continued this glorious work.

“As a whole they began to move, like a ship hung low in the water, first slow and sluggish, building up steam, calling forth great power to afford that first movement, with each inch moving faster and faster, more and more easily, until the ship felt more like a speedboat, rising high in the water, skimming the surface, everyone laughing and dancing in the spray of water and light.

“The Great Turning, they called it, a great shifting of the people, the planet, the ways and means that no longer worked, the center that no longer held replaced, piece by piece, until a new world was born, first crowning with a lurch, then bursting with a lunge into freedom, into fresh air, one of those overnight successes that began with a journey of 10,000 steps.

“It’s a beautiful dream, Mikey, a beautiful dream. And you know what? Sometimes I thinkOurStory1
it’s happening right now – this very moment. Maybe I’m part of it – maybe you’re part of
it. Maybe we’re each finding our way right now, finding our voices, and coming together in these groups – taking those 10,000 steps. What do you think, sweet girl? What does your heart tell you?”

A gentle snore was Gran’s only answer. She smiled, for she had already seen Mikey’s answer, on all the other nights the young girl had requested this story. The funny little smile that crossed her face each time Gran asked that question. Mikey knew – and she was looking forward to the birthday party.


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(C) 2012 Front Porch Rambles, Mary Batson
Published Aug/Sept 2012, OnPurpose Woman

Dance Like A Stone

Long, long ago, before the age of man, the great stones would gather on mountain tops to dance and sing their songs of praise and joy. By moonlight they gathered, and deep into the darkness they would sing, as moonbeams danced about them, mirroring their every move, dip for bow, bow for dip.

Slow and stately was the dance of the elders, elegant in its subtle patterns, first worshipful in its simplicity, then splendidly extravagant with an occasional crescendo of air and light and sound from some young and impetuous pebble. For thousands of years they danced, wearing deep grooves in the earth as they traveled from plain to plateau to peak, never dreaming that the paths they trod would later become the great rivers and canyons and creeks and streambeds that you and I know. But that story, of the age of rain, is not for today.

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In those days, the earth was also young and impetuous, so far as planets go, twirling gaily through the cosmos, a ballerina among the stars, spinning madly until she would grow dizzy and have to slow down for a while. Yet even planets grow up, and grow up Earth did, just as her children grew, and as she grew her dance slowed, steps gliding in a seamless spin that no longer jolted and churned in childish glee, but instead reflected the steady, beautiful balance she had attained, with footsteps one could hardly follow, so soft were they, as if she no longer needed to touch the star-studded dance floor along her path.

As the great dancer slowed, so did the mighty rocks, young and old alike, twirling and spinning ever more slowly, ever more stately, ever more stone-ly. It almost seemed like the rocks had forgotten they could dance, that they had danced for trillions of years, before the first star’s laughter had ever reached them in applause. Some rocks began to dance in place, moving only in their minds, freezing atop their marble stages, caught in an eternal spotlight of moonglow.

Others would start for home, then somewhere along the way, halfway down the mountain, they would stop, as if struck by thought, and never move again. Others would be halfway to their next tryst before they would understand that now was the time for Being, when all the Doing and Dancing was to cease for a spell in this new age.

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And so today, Gran said, as you travel about, you may notice a stone here or there that seems in an odd place, almost like it was stopped, tumbling in mid-air, mid-step, mid-dance – and you will be right. It was. For now is the time for the stones to Be, to hold their wisdom, to watch and wait for the day when they will share it with those to come.

But don’t ever mistake, Gran went on – they still dance, only more beautifully and subtly than ever. We rarely see this, she said, because we rarely slow down enough to appreciate the elegance with which they move. And if per chance one day we should happen to catch a stone in its dance, plunging down a mountain side or tumbling along a river bed, we can laugh, realizing that this must be one of the younger stones, who for a moment has remembered that it can fly, it can dance, it can soar with the best of them, and just for a moment was overcome with exuberance, forgetting itself in the joy of flight.

And then we can smile, forgiving its slip with a shake of our head and the warmth in our heart, whispering quietly, “Be patient, young friend. Your time will be here soon. You who have not forgotten have served faithfully in your stillness, and for that you shall be rewarded. Until then, sweet friend, watch on.”

And so it was, Gran said, and so it shall be – and so it is.

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(c) 2010 Mary Batson, Front Porch Rambles

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