The Hunkypunk

1/25/2014

The Hunkypunk

I am a hunkypunk. If you do not know what that is, I will tell you shortly. I consider it important for you to know what I actually am and what I am not...especially the latter.  Now, i live in a garden in Vermont-- a quiet garden on a hillside. How and why I got here I am not sure myself but I will share what I know and you can decide if I am telling the truth.

So, sometimes people visit the garden where I sit and they inevitably say, “Oh, what a cute gargoyle!”  If I had blood, it would boil at those casual and  careless words.  I strongly suspect that gargoyles and I stem from a common ancient ancestor but we have evolved quite differently, like men and monkeys, we being the men, of course.  People like you know a little bit about gargoyles from pictures or travels to old cities in Europe. Humans seem to be fascinated by gargoyles but let me assure you that even the most celebrated gargoyles are nothing but old drainpipes. You find them on the eaves of aging cathedrals and churches, collecting rainwater in their hollowed-out backs and spewing it out and away from the mortar and walls of the cathedrals built to stand for eternity. All those hollow empty monsters do is drain water, laced, I am sure, with lots of pigeon poo, off the roofs of those old edifices.  Occasionally, one tumbles off an eave and strikes dead some unsuspecting soul on the ground.  Gargoyles are nothing but potentially deadly, pigeon poo spewing sewer lines.  I would never, ever want to be a gargoyle.

The word “gargoyle” itself is interesting, though. It comes from an old (i.e.. not modern) French word that referred to the throat. The word and the action evoke gurgling or gargling. If you are quite young, you may not be familiar with gargling but most babies do a fair amount of gurgling so you can get the picture of what I mean. The word simply evokes the sound of the water flowing through the throat of the gargoyle, a kind of onomatopoetic experience, if you will.

The legend tells us that a 7th century nobleman captured a terrible firebreathing dragon and brought it to the Merovingian king of France for slaying.  They set the dragon on fire to destroy it and burned it up, except for the head and neck of the dragon, which had been long tempered by all the firebreathing it had done over the millenia. The king just stuck the head and neck up on a church as a warning to evil doers. Thus the concept of directing dirty water off the roofs through the mouths of monsters was born. To be more historically correct, if one can be that regarding myths, the ancient Egyptians and Greeks used similar devices to drain water away, but as there is a lot more rain in Germany and Belgium than in Egypt, the Europeans really elevated the intimidating drainpipe to an art form through the dark ages and medieval times.

Anyway, I am proud to be a hunkypunk, NOT a gargoyle. I acknowledge physical similarities but my family lineage has never been attached to any roofline.  I am considered to be purely decorative, serving only to remind the bold and the timid that both good and evil exist in the world and we must be aware of both states. Yup, that is my job and I love it. 

My name comes from the West Country of England... Somerset, to be precise. I prefer to use my English name of Hunkypunk.  There are indeed other names used to label my genre. Those would include Chimera, Grotesque, and Kirkegrim.  Chimera, though pretty enough, is foreign sounding and likely to be mispronounced, as well as sounding ghostly and insubstantial. The term Grotesque is just....mmm.. grotesque. I use it to describe gargoyles and you already know how I feel about them. The words Kirke-grim bother me much. It is all right to be associated with a church (kirke). It is our tradition. But the word “grim” is all wrong. It means “ugly” or “nasty” and I am neither.  I am unique, I am ancient, I am a hunkypunk, a gentle spirit to please the eye and I offer my protection to those who love me.

“How so?” youi say. “you are a stone statue.”  I must respond that I work through the power and mystery of the magic that lingers even in today’s technological and cynical world.  Note my wings, a clear indicator that I am descended from dragons and what is more magical than dragons, I ask you? True, I no longer breathe fire. On a cold day I cannot even produce a little steam from my mouth or nose. But there are those times of the day when magic strengthens and when it wanes, mostly at the edges of night. I know this. The edges, all edges of worlds, are amazing... the edges of day and night, of forest and field, of life and death.. where magic is most mysteriously powerful and transitions are imminent and anything is possible. 

Next, see my ears, like those of a bat or a fox, those creatures of the night, not unlike me.  Like these creatures, my eyes are keen in the darkness and I see everything... everything. And I hear everything. So when night deepens and all the lights go out in the house of my garden, I am freed from the cold stone and I can roam the gardens and fields and barns to keep this hill safe from the weasel, the fox, or the owl. The cat can come out for a little mouse hunt or love match without fear because I will protect her.  The hens can roost in the knowledge that they are safe from raccoons. The lambs can sleep and dream next to their mothers, safe to grow another day. Then as I hear the dawn arriving on the song of the lark, or when the lights go on in the house, I return to my place among the tomatoes or between the lilies, wherever they have placed me.  It is about the magic and spiritual mysteries on earth, but especially the magic. And that is my job now, and I am glad.

There is more to tell-- there is always more but today I will sit in the sun by the lavender and roses. And now you know a little bit about hunkypunks.  And you must promise me to never, please, ...never call me a gargoyle.

Bluebird

A long time ago, but not so far away, the world was beginning to look as it does now-- not completely so, but you would recognize most of the animals that walked and birds that danced in the sky. The ancient mysteries like the dragons and unicorns had disappeared but some of the magic that these marvelous creatures brought into the world still existed, rarer now but still potent and capable of making things change in miraculous ways. There was certainly bad as well as good magic but one must stay away from the bad magic for very good reasons.

Now, while much would look familiar to you, there was one small bird you probably would not recognize though his kind are with us today. This little bird had no name and this made him very sad. He was quite plain and little noticed.  He was kind of brownish-grayish, the color of old leaves and dead grass. His song was sweet and melodious but was no competition at all for the thrushes and vireos that trilled throughout the summer forest, or for the nightingales’ evening prayers, or even the raucous chatter of the bluejays.  The little bird looked with an admiring but longing heart at the beautiful cardinals and graceful (though mean) swans, and the sunny goldfinches. They were all noticed for their songs or colorful presence and most of them even belonged to a flock, another joy which seems to have been forgotten when the little bird was assigned his place on earth. All these things weighed heavily on the little bird’s heart.

It is not that the little bird lacked skills or love. He and his mate were devoted to each other. That was their nature. And he had keen eyes and was a great hunter of bugs and worms to keep his family fed and healthy. Our little bird would perch high in an apple tree, at the tippytop, actually, where he could see across the fields and into the grass where the bugs were hiding. Then he would flutter down, almost like a dancer, hovering lightly in the air until he was upon the worm, then home to the nest with his catch. He and his mate raised several nestsful of hungry babies every year and his offspring all went out and made their own nests, as children are wont to do everywhere. He was very proud of his children. 

Still the plain little bird was not totally happy. He wanted a name, at the very least, and he decided he needed magic to help him.  As the last of the nestlings had flown away, and summer was still warm, he and his mate relaxed and enjoyed their days. He confided in his mate that he longed greatly for a name, and shared with her his plan to seek magic. This is what he told her....  He said, “the swans and geese told me they found  magic in the great oceans and waters that fill the world. And the thrushes and owls found magic in the deep forests that lie beyond our fields. I will visit those places to find a way to get a name.”  His mate, who loved him completely, cautioned the little bird. She pointed out that the forests were deep and dark, unlike the sunny fields where they lived. And there was dark magic there, trolls, pixies, and other things that do more mischief than magic. She feared that he would become lost in the forest and perish, get eaten by an owl or snake and never return. Then she turned her concern to the oceans and lakes. She said the oceans are vast and endless and there are few places to rest and he did not know how to swim. Lakes were also full of unknown perils, like fish that jumped out of the water to catch small birds, and sirens and eels, and nymphs of questionable motives. She begged him not to go  to those endless waters. 

That left the skies above his fields. They knew that there was magic in the skies. They had seen the rainbows, and shooting stars at night, and clouds that shifted shapes to create wonderful figures that quickly changed into something new again. But they had never heard of any creature that had sought magic there. They knew of dangers there also... hawks that hunted the skies and great storms that tore down trees and sometimes drowned the lands. But his mate pointed out that he had been in the sky and knew signs of storms and could always just drop back down into the fields if things got too scary. They wrapped their wings around each other and prepared themselves for whatever might  happen next.

The little bird began his journey. He flew up towards the beautiful blue sky, higher than he had ever flown. And he kept going higher, up, up above the clouds. The earth become fuzzy, and he could not see his home. Suddenly he saw a little raincloud form and shower the land below with its water. Then, to the little bird’s amazement, there was a rainbow. The little bird was quite spent but determined to seek magic there, so he flew as fast as he could because he knew that rainbows disappeared as fast as they appeared and he could see it begin to fade already. He flew so fast, until he realized the rainbow was gone, and then he began to tumble down towards his field. He could fly no more that day and could hardly even flutter his wings. Somehow, he got to his home, where he fell into a deep sleep and slept for a day and a night, most unusual for our little bird. When he awoke, he knew his mate had tended to him and that was comforting to him. He remembered little of his brave journey and decided his fate was to be plain. Magic was too hard to find. 

So, our little bird went out and perched on his favorite apple tree. He sat in the sun, not hunting, but thinking. Then he saw that many of the familiar creatures of the field were looking at him and he heard them say. “Look at that beautiful bluebird. He is the color of the sky! We have never seen such a pretty blue bird.”  ‘Is it true?’ he thought. He flew to his nest and told his mate what he had heard. It was true, she told him. He had tumbled out of the sky with the color of the heavens upon his feathers. And now he and all his kind had a name, Bluebird, as the magic had spread to all of his kind. The sadness which had been in his heart began to leave. It poured out his chest like blood from a wound, staining his breast red but leaving a happy heart in its place. And that is the beautiful bluebird we know today, not just beautiful but brave and loyal, and perched at the tippytop of the small trees in the summer, looking for bugs and worms to feed his family.

Evergreen

Evergreen

The Vermont rural winter landscape is often a subdued array of hues of blacks and whites with little color to catch the eye. Walking down the driveway on a morning when clouds are low and dense and snow is falling thickly, I am struck by the softness of the scene that presents itself.  It is like being in the middle of an Impressionist painting, soft edges and colors, indistinct shapes, as if the snow is silence falling all around, no wind, no creaking trees, just the hush of snow on snow and the sense that the world is far away.  The only color to see at this moment is the deep green of firs and pines, a dark green not even found in the crayon box and showing itself inconsistently as light and movement reveal infinite shades of green.

The big spruce next to the house is a perfect example of the blessings that evergreens give our landscapes. Almost as wide as it is tall, this tree is a visual feast of color and life. It contrasts with the lighter green of the feathery white pines behind it with its absolutely color-drenched green-black boughs, softened by the load of snow it carries today. On a brighter day, it shares its brown cones and even some yellowed tips, but on this snow filled morning, it looms dark, green and eternal. 

No wonder evergreens have been adopted as a symbol of life, both in pagan and faith-based communities. This tree with its persistent dark branches offers shelter and safety to the winter birds and squirrels. Flocks of doves and chickadees fly in and out with impunity. When I get too near this tree, it is prickly and difficult, but not for the birds who amuse us through the winter.  Summer birds prefer to nest in the lilacs or apple trees, but those winter inhabitants know that the dark evergreen is safe. Green is mentioned in the Quran as the color of carpets and cushions in Paradise. In Christian liturgy, it is the color of Ordinary Time, after Christmas but before Lent, then after Lent and before Advent. In Hebrew, the word “green”  and “young” is the same, reflecting the ideas of rebirth and renewal that is associated with the color.  Amen.

So I notice and like my evergreen in the winter. In the summer it will not stand out as the rest of the landscape will be revived, but in the subtlety of the winter world, it is most beautiful.