The Log

The Log

In the pantheon of US holidays, fourth of July was always my favorite. It was special because I spent twenty five summers in Provincetown at the very tip of Cape Cod. The holiday required no gifts, no family dynamics, no emotional drama. It was so simple. You watched a parade, went to the beach, had a BBQ with friends, then enjoyed the fireworks in the evening. It was a holiday that represented summer, sun, and fond friendships that for me lasted over thirty years.

The Log was an old wooden beam about twelve feet long that washed up in Provincetown bay. It landed on the beach in front of the Crown & Anchor hotel where it remained for years. It was well-known as a landmark. To our group, The Log represented stability, continuity, and our personally marked territory on July 4th. Because everyone on Cape Cod wanted to come to Provincetown to see the fireworks, The Log was deemed our gathering place on July 4th.


To secure it, we had to claim The Log and that section of beach by 7 a.m. the morning of the holiday. We took umbrellas, beach chairs, blankets and all the paraphernalia we would need during the celebration to mark this blackened beam as ours. One person was chosen to remain and hold The Log until we all arrived with coolers later in the day. It wasn't hard duty because the Crown & Anchor played patriotic music all day long. And the people watching was superb.

Now, thirty years later, things have changed. The country still celebrates July 4th with parades, gatherings and fireworks. Those long ago summer days are sweet but distant memories. Those pals from the Cape got older. Most of us moved away. Like so many quaint places in Provincetown, the "old Crown & Anchor" is now an upscale hotel, too grand to host non-guests on its beach by the bay. You might wonder what happened to The Log? It was dredged up and unceremoniously hauled away when the Crown & Anchor was remodeled.


Every July 4th holiday I think of those friends. I can still smell the beach and the gunpowder from the fireworks. And I always hear Kate Smith belting out God Save America from "The Crown's" speakers. Her voice and that song say July 4th for me. But The Log is the grandest memory of all. For it was our touchstone no matter what was happening in the world.

You see, The Log was our metaphor in time and space. Those summer days on The Log sheltered us when AIDS was rampant and the world's financial markets were in disarray. The Log gatherings allowed us to laugh, remember, forget, sing oldies, and eat lobsters. The Log was where we said goodbye to friends lost to AIDS and where we welcomed new ones into our midst. Each summer when we returned to the Cape The Log was still there on the beach, promising us that all was well in our little world.

The Log is long gone but the message it left behind is easy to recall. To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven. Spiritual teachings say that everything is in a state of becoming, living, then dying and becoming again. The Log's message is, everything is in transition. It reminds that rituals are necessary in the human experience and celebrations a tonic.  Thirty years later I still love Kate Smith and fireworks and still hold those friends close. But, as things change so did my new favorite holiday which is Thanksgiving. I also know that one day, this too shall pass! That's the real message of The Log. 

                                                                                                  Jo Mooy - July 2017  

The Mosquito and the Dove

The Mosquito & The Dove

One is a tiny annoyance, buzzing around and biting the unsuspecting victim. The other is a gentle bird making cooing sounds and threatening no one. One is a menace to anyone enjoying an afternoon in the park. The other sings its songs in the enjoyment of the park. But can a mosquito or a dove change your life? Yes if you've killed one. Such is the story of the Mosquito and the The Dove. 

When I was six years old, my playmates were all boy cousins. We traveled as a "pack" playing games or trying to outdo one another in contests of strength or skill. One day we decided to make sling shots. It took hours to choose the right tree branch, cut it to size, and carve the V-shape just so. Finally, each of us had a perfect sling shot. Next we had to find our prey.

We set up a target and fired small stones at it. Then growing bored, the boys began to aim at birds in the sky, missing each one. Taunts and wagers filled the air as each stone flew wide of its mark. Then I spotted a mourning dove on the ground near a distant hedgerow and announced I could hit it. My cousins jeered telling me there was no way I could hit anything that far away. I drew back the rubber sling, aimed at the mourning dove and hit it. I watched in horror as feathers flew and the bird disappeared in the undergrowth.

Though I survived the cheers and back slaps of my cousins my eyes filled with tears. When the boys went off to other pursuits I went to the place I'd last seen the mourning dove. On hands and knees I searched for her. Reaching into the dead leaves at the bottom of the shrubs I looked for feathers. There were none. Sobbing, I looked for blood. There was none. I pulled all the low branches of the shrubs aside, examining each one. I knew I'd hit the dove with a stone but there was no evidence of the bird. I went home bereft. 

That night in bed I imagined the injured bird had hidden itself from me. I saw her nest with the eggs now untended. I knew she was dying alone somewhere, all because of me. In the silly moment of showing off to my cousins that I was as good a shot, or better than them, I'd killed an innocent creature. The pain wracked me with guilt and grief. I knew, even at the age of six, that it was wrong and I had not only hurt it, but something precious inside of me also died. I cried myself to sleep that night and many nights after. Decades later I still live with the sadness of taking the life of this most gentle of innocent creatures. To compensate I declared the mourning dove my totem, treasuring them and their sounds ever since.

Years later a spiritual master told me his story of killing a mosquito. He was playing with his grandchildren and heard a mosquito buzzing them. The kids began to cry because the mosquito had bitten them. So with determination he stalked the mosquito, killing it. He said he knew better but felt no guilt about it. He didn't question whether he should have or shouldn't have killed it. But suddenly everything froze. He went into twelve seconds of silence realizing he had killed something that he was intricately connected to. He was the food of this insect. And in that realization he was the instrument that killed that which he was part of.

We talked about the killing of the dove and the mosquito. It didn't matter whether the dove was not deserving of death or the mosquito deserving of death for biting humans. Both were  entwined in this vast network of life, each dependent on the other. He told me that when humans begin to function with the realization that all of life is sacred and inter-connected, we will become like prophets. He said the secret of the prophets is that they know love is the foundation of life and that all things are one connection through the magnetism of love. 

The story of The Mosquito and the Dove are apt metaphors for the love we can hope to have for each other. It's easiest with family. It's kind of easy with friends. It's not as easy with the birds and insects that also inhabit our spheres of influence. That is, until you have the experience of killing one. Then you'll experience their loving essence pouring out and enveloping you. At that moment you'll know at the core of your being the loving interconnected relationship we have with all things.

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                                                                                           Jo Mooy - April, 2017