ROCK ON WITH YOUR BAD SELF

"Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good."

Romans xii. 21

Stone walls rock and roll across the New England countryside as a fixture within pastoral views. When born and raised in bucolic New England, these remarkable structures are nothing unusual, rather, a normal part of life as the ancient markers that separate farmland, establish boundaries and decorate the landscape. If good fences make for good neighbors, then stone walls make the very best fences, impervious to the elements. They create a patch-worked landscape with slabs of stone the land yielded, remnants of the last Ice Age. Of course, they've served a purpose as a means of keeping cows in pastures while providing the necessary barrier for other creatures as well. Still, when one examines any well-planned well-built stone wall it's a wonder to behold, something to admire. Students of this Colonial Era know the backbreaking history. They know slaves and indentured servants built the majority of these labor-intensive lines in the sand, one stone at a time, every edifice erected with far more than a few drops of blood, sweat and tears. Within the broad strokes of human creativity, stone walls are those fine lines of history etched upon the Earth. They have a story to tell. They've left a mark on the planet. To be sure, they are a normal part of everyday life in rural New England but the walls enclosing the backyard at the farm were supernatural in nature. If only these rocks could talk ... but they did. Talking rocks did more than that. They sang and played like the children, as an instrument accompanying wind song within a magical valley. Stone walls were an integral part of the whole big picture, a gift, as an elemental reflection, grand relics with a telltale past.

"The primary beauty of silence becomes audible in the elemental music of the earth."

John O'Donohue

Inclined to venture forth out onto the massive property, this family soon learned the intricacies of a framework of art, following the walls to sacred spots, walking with them into the woods. There is a place behind the house which yields a magic all its own, a spot that reveals the true power of nature, intermingling as it does with its walls of stone whenever they perform an interlude, in concert with the wind. The children heard it first and wondered about the origin, unable to identify a source of the sound. No one recognized it. As foreign as it was enticing, it produced a trance-inducing tune when the land was laden with fresh fallen snow. During their first winter at the farm, one storm after another blew through, gale force winds ushering snow along at light speed. Once the birds were stunned into silence, their tranquil valley lined with granite issued its blanket invitation to the wind. "Let's play." With that, stones would begin creating their own haunting melodies, a miraculous kind of rock music in its purest form. Slabs of granite sang elemental songs. This cacophony of vibrating air was heard lashing against encrusted crystals, causing eerie echoes throughout the valley, cries and whispers of unforgiving wind. Every gust revealing secrets kept for centuries, its depth and resonance fluctuating wildly with the brisk breeze, it was sublime, symphonic in nature. Hypnotic by divine design ... a spell cast by the Mother.

Sleds and flying saucers in tow, the children began their long journey at the top of the hill, just beyond the kitchen door. It was during one of these sledding sessions they'd first noticed music playing in their own back yard. Surrounded by trees, interplay with exposed limbs and thick, lush evergreens was the likeliest cause and the wind itself was noisy, after all. Still, the sound seemed to come from a lower position, closer to the ground. By the time they arrived at the bottom of the treacherous hill they realized it was stone walls serenading them. Depending on velocity and direction of prevailing wind, it whined or whistled, cooing as it crept. Or, if thrashing through gaps of space between compressed rocks, in its mad dash to the muse, the wind became wedged among slabs, caught up in then spun around, crashing into itself in collision and collusion. Turning to come 'round right back from whence it came, pushing into then out of crevices, it impacted an impenetrable force of nature: granite. Pivoting in place, freeing itself from the confines of the black holes tucked between stacked stone, it rushed back through narrow passages, out the doorway it entered, passing itself in the process, in frantic friction. To this extent the laws of physics apply. It seemed a natural phenomenon with a few supernatural undertones. Its rapid, repetitive motion is its creative force; releasing energy, creating synergy as it intersects with the stones, producing a synthesis of sound unlike anything the girls had encountered before: wind and rock playing together in perfect harmony. They went to get their mother. It was something she had to hear! Tuning into this circuitous frequency was joyful, a message delivered directly from Mother Nature, received by all who possessed fortitude to brave the elements. Curiosity casts its own astounding light. She bundled up to join them at the foot of the hill, leaning in, listening closely to what was being revealed ... the cosmic secrecy of stone.

"The Earth has music for those who listen."

George Santayana

Once they realized the source of the sounds, dark and stormy nights were not so scary anymore. The girls welcomed this natural lullaby as they drifted off to sleep. It was beautiful. On particularly windy nights it drowned out the other sounds they heard in the house, pretending not to notice. Nature was an escape, their destination. It was a grand part of what many would objectively describe as an idyllic childhood. Truth be told, it was a place to go, their way to get away. However, land surrounding the farmhouse was equally dark and mysterious. It was home to the spirits inhabiting the dwelling. This had been their land and they knew it better than anyone else because they had worked the land in life. They'd built stone walls and cleared pastures and knew every square inch of the property. Supernatural episodes routinely occurred there. A veritable variety show of scenarios played out on its expansive stage, on a patch of sacred ground, the parcel of Earth known as the old Arnold Estate. There were life lessons to be learned at every turn in those woods, primarily that the woods certainly did not qualify as escape from supernatural activity occurring inside the house. "Outside" was merely a change of venue.

There is something to be said for broadening one's horizons, peering into the cosmos with the mind's eye, though none of them was remotely prepared for what they'd see. No one could have anticipated to what extent...