March 14, 2017

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Steve just feels it's "about time for another entry." And then he's off-and-running writing it in his head, before we even start! So we will pause, for a moment...

Steve has a researcher (in addition to our usual one, a friend), going through Mathew's writing from the years after I had passed. But "somehow," he has gotten diverted to some of the things we submitted to the newspaper, in the small town we initially eloped to, when we had been married only a year. This was our hopeful time--we were young, we were brash, and, well, Steve is flashing to comedian Lee Camp. Have you seen him, and his irreverent crew? We were like that, but in the Victorian era. And Victorians were reformers, dears. Not neurotic, staid naysayers. (Those were the Puritans, and the Calvinists, and so-on.) So here we were in this little, conservative, New England town of Dover, New Hampshire. You may know that Mathew's brother, John Greenleaf Whittier, was an abolitionist; but by this time, Mathew was no less so, and I was right-in-there-with-him.

So, Steve "accidentally" found, for sale, a Dover "Enquirer" from this period on Ebay. He had the whim ;-) to search for it, because years ago, another researcher had found his business advertisements in that paper. But here, in this edition, was one of our letters to the editor, rebutting a pro-slavery idiot who was signing as "Alpha & Beta." You know, an arrogant snob who thought he had it covered. That meant, we just had to come up with a signature to match, and after some high-humored deliberations, and given that our son Joseph was born during this time, and we were a threesome, we decided to mock this "Alpha & Beta" by signing as "Kappa, Lambda and Mu."

Steve has looked up each of these letters--knowing full-well that we would not have missed the opportunity to embed some hidden meaning in them--and has what he thinks is the solution. He is going to keep right on channeling, here, as if I agree with him, which I do. (Do you see how tricky this channeling is? Steve really tries to do it honestly.)

"Kappa," Steve found out, can refer either to scholarly comparison of texts; or to a Japanese water sprite. Let's look at the latter, I'm telling Steve. Can we find it on Wikipedia, again? Just a snippet of it will do (and I am really tickled at this, to think of myself as this creature...

The kappa is typically depicted as roughly humanoid in form and about the size of a child. Its scaly reptilian skin ranges in color from green to yellow or blue. Kappa supposedly inhabit the ponds and rivers of Japan, and have various features to aid them in this environment, such as webbed hands and feet. They are sometimes said to smell like fish and they can swim like them. The expression kappa no kawa nagare ("a kappa drowning in a river") conveys the idea that even experts make mistakes.

I am giving Steve to feel that this is the relevant part. You may remember that I grew up in a house which overlooked the Merrimack River in East Haverhill, Mass. He knows I may have been athletic, despite being small of stature; what he doesn't know, is that I loved to swim, and was quite at home in the water.* Thus, it was natural I would humorously style myself as a "kappa" for the purposes of our little signature. I was also quite self-deprecating as regards my personal beauty, which Mathew kept raving on about! Ah, he healed me--I had such a low opinion of myself! I have told you all the story, but perhaps it has gotten lost in the archives. I was ridiculed by these big, ample farm girls, which is what the young men prized in a woman (because she would bear him many farm hands, you see, and not wear out and die until they were old enough to work the farm--but these girls were too stupid to realize that's why the boys were taught to go for these traits). So I was told, over and over by them, that I was skinny, and little, and would die in my first childbirth, and that I was odd-looking, besides. Matt told me I was beautiful, a "dauphine," an "angel." Here is a passage in one of his silly stories, very very loosely telling the story of how we first met at a fall apple paring party, when I "came out" at age 16. He would mix-and-match these details to hide my identity, so this girl is supposed to be tall--but if she's tall, why is she standing on tip-toe to see in the mirror, while she's fixing herself up for the party? No, it was me, and I was trying to see into the mirror, you see, which was placed on the wall too high for me! But Mathew didn't see that. He saw an angel...

At the glass stands a young girl just blossoming into womanhood. How beautiful! Tall and graceful as a candle, twelve to the pound. Her eyes are as dark and brilliant as a black walnut rocking-chair, and shaded by lashes as long and sleek as a muskrat's tail. Her chin is directly under her nose. Her mouth is small and beautifully curved. Her lips are as red as two cherries, not looking as though they had ever been soiled by pork or buttered pancakes.

Her bosom heaves and swells like a summer's sea, while her long, jet-black hair, hardly confined by a string, falls beautifully about her long swan-like neck.

Her toilet is completed!

She looks in the glass!

She rares upon her toes! Like a beautiful angel, she rares up on her toes!

My hair was auburn and wavy, and my eyes were green, not black, but my mouth was just as he describes (one of my best features). And Steve remembered admiring me, as I stood on tip-toe to reach something on the top shelf, long before he discovered that story. (I could easily have put everything on the lower shelf, you see, but I wanted to keep him interested, and I knew he especially loved to catch a glimpse of my ankles and my feet--which tended to show under my floor-length calico house-dress when I reached up like that, just as Steve remembered it.)

Matt would praise me so extravagantly, that in my wounded cynicism, I would accuse him of false flattery. It's even reflected in one of my short stories, where a sister accuses her brother, Frank (Matt's middle name was Franklin) of buttering her up so that she would go ask their uncle for more spending money. Let us pause, here, before we quote that example, to share that Steve feels, now, that "buttering one up" was not a phrase from our era, or one that we used--even though it certainly sounds like it's old enough to be, doesn't it? So Steve will look it up, now...

There seems to be an English-Spanish dictionary from 1798 which includes this usage; it is claimed for the 1700's, with scarce evidence. Matt and I were in the 1830's; but Steve felt he could not honestly channel that phrase, from me, as something we would have used. So we will leave it there.

So, Steve isn't clear whether I want him to share the following passsage, or not--is it his idea, and I don't want him to, but he's just bulldozing ahead, insisting on it, anyway? Or am I ambivalent, so he is getting mixed emotional messages? It's the latter. I feel ashamed, for having doubted him. We are now trying to provide you with a window into how we channel; and this may help you learn to do it, too.

So, here is the passage. Fanny, the younger sister, has caught on to her older brother Frank's ruse of flattery, which was all for the purpose of inducing her to ask their uncle for more spending money:

Frank's voice grew irresistibly musical, (ah, the syren tongue of Flatttery!) "Do n't you know, Fanny, what a winning, sweet, beautiful face you've got, to begin with? And then everything you do and say is so just exactly the thing you ought to do and say"----

"Oh, Frank, Frank; pray leave off!"

"Why, Fanny, I have not begun yet; you know, Fanny, you have a way with all this to go in upon Uncle Charles with your soft voice and agreeable ways, and do anything you like with him."

"Ah, Frank, matter-of-fact, after all," murmured Fanny, dropping her eyelids despondingly.

I was accustomed to having brothers; and I am telling Steve, now, one of them was a bit like this, one of my older ones. So when Matt flattered me, I just naturally assumed, you see--because even my family thought I was odd--the ugly duckling, really speaking. It was Mathew who saw that at age 16 (and if truth be told, even somewhat before) I was turning into a swan. But Mathew praised my eyes, and my hair, and my lips, and my laugh...well, shall we go to his poem about me at age 16, after the party, when he was allowed to visit me just for myself, and not, as formerly, only for tutoring sessions? I was pulling out all the stops (never mind when that idiom started, but it is probably related to organ-playing, don't you think?), using all the wiles an untutored 16-year-old girl can dream up. Matt seemed impervious--poker-faced--so I would try even harder. He had to notice me, because I was dying inside, for love of him. But I didn't seem to be having any effect on him. This was his experience of it...little did I know :-)

There I sat in a passion,
Sulking; and there sat she,
Swinging in the long grape-vine
Looped from the great ash-tree.

Sitting at ease, and singing,
Teasing, dainty-formed thing!
Slender white feet, just grazing
Mosses under the swing.

Sunshine speckled the grape-leaves,
sunshine dript on her hair;
Odious, stealthy sunshine!
What a bold thing you are!

Oh! What glistening shoulders!
Oh! What a cruel white arm,
Reaching up for the blossoms
Just on purpose to charm!

That little bow-fashioned mouth,
aiming kisses at mine,
Confound its pulpy-red bliss!
Mischievous—but divine.

Deck’d like a little princess,
Sitting in gorgeous state;
Crowned with her tiger lilies,
Tawdry blossoms I hate!

Pelting my hat with roses,
In rapid, flaunting showers.
Winding her brook-like laughter
In and out with the flowers.

What should I do, but love her
Dearer than ever yet!
What could I do—all vanquished
Lion-like in a net!

Oh, for a heart of marble!
Else ‘twould peril a king—
Dared he sit under the arbor
Looking at Abbie swing.

Perhaps, in your age of over-reactions, you may think this is too racy a tribute for such a young woman...but Matt was 20, and I was 16, and I had officially "come out," and I wanted him and only him--and he had responded to my desperate overtures far more enthusiastically than I could ever have dreamed! I had no idea about men, you see. I was a sheltered, upper-class country girl. I only knew he was--Steve is struggling with the blast of mixed-up impressions, plus what he already knows--Matt was rustic nobility. He was a wag, and a rogue (but a kindly, honorable one), a warrior for Truth, he was handsome, he was extremely funny, he was a kind of god to me. My heart had long been his; he had rescued me from my tormenters when I was a child, he had treated me with honor and respect when everyone else (except my family, who treated me as a pet) mocked me. He, alone, saw my worth, which deep down, I knew was mine. With him, I was a "dauphine."

But scars from being mocked go deep, very deep. How did Matt heal me? How did he get past my cynicism? He kissed me--every inch of me. This is when we were married. Every little inch. I will never forget it no matter how many lifetimes I live. And when he was finished, he gazed into my eyes and told me, solemnly, what will not be repeated, here, because it is sacred. And at that moment, all the scars were healed.

This, my friends, is soul-mate love.

I got off on a tangent--as happens, in channeling, where Steve is associating from one thought to another--and never got back to "Lambda" and "Mu." Lambda, Steve found on Wikipedia, can mean a Spartan shield. Matt had studied the ancient Greeks (we had done so, together, in my tutoring sessions); and he knew full-well how "shielded" he was, emotionally, and would poke fun at himself in this regard. So I was the water sprite, and Matt was the Spartan shield! we worked well together. Perhaps you and your beloved balance each other out nicely in a similar way. And as for Mu, Steve found that it's a chord--the basic triad with the second added. Play my theme music again, on the home page for my journal--the chord which lingers in the air at the end, is a "Mu." I earlier gave Steve the "flash" that this is the vibration of creation, because while it tries to resolve into the tonic, it cannot, and this raises consciousness--it creates. The vibration of the Word of creation is a vibration which tries to resolve back to the One, but cannot, and the result is infinite creation, in the attempt, so to speak. Does that make sense? So Joseph was our "Mu." Kappa, Lambda, and Mu.

Love to each and all,
Abby

*This makes Steve question the clues he has found, in his past-life stories, which suggest he may have saved me from drowning when I fell out of a rowboat on a lake. But, dears, I wasn't in any real danger of drowning, you see ;-).