Welcome to the. . . “Metaphysical Musings page. . .  poetry and articles.   "Science, Metaphysical Science, Wisdom, Power and . . . Hope,"   Parts I, II, III, and IV . . .   more about the wisdom of the ancients and how it intersects with; runs parallel to modern science.  "Tapping into the Spirit World," a Halloween article.  "Solo Flight,"  a metaphysically-inspired poem about becoming who you are; freeing yourself from all that you previously knew to be true about yourself and the world around you . . . to enable you to start with a blank canvas to ReCreate yourself . . . and your own reality! To view the above and below articles, click on the associated link . . . "This I Believe" article submitted to NPR's "This I Believe" series and published on their website . . . http://thisibelieve.org/dsp_ShowEssay.php?lastname=dana&uid=31949&yval=0&start=0    "Gaia . . . The Living Planet" article submitted to "RedBubble" to compete in their "Gaia . . . The Living Planet" competition, written in "first person" as though channeling the very spirit of Gaia, and published on their website . . . http://www.redbubble.com/people/jdana/writing/804375-gaia-the-living-planet . . . also . . . scroll down for . . . "Maynard & The Magic Playground”; A Winter Holiday story – FREE DOWNLOAD – MAYNARD STORY AND COLORING PAGES. . .

"I Hear The songs of Angels”       I hear the songs of angels      When I see a flower grow.        Thru troubled         And tempestuous times,             It helps, somehow,              To know . . .         That even in          The most barren place              If God will have               An angel grace                  A seed . . .                 To grow . . .               Then even in               This lonely heart            God will place                  Some work of art . . .                I know

The Following is FREE for DOWNLOAD . . . My gift to you . . . With my best wishes for . . . The Happiest Winter Holiday Season!!! . . . to print out. . .  highlight article and artwork, choose print, print selection . . . and print . . .   "Maynard And The Magic Playground" Ó2006 Jet Dana A wonderfully endearing  magical "winter holiday story" to enjoy reading and coloring together!  Inspired by my work in the playground industry Artwork & Story – Jet Dana www.get-emotional.com   As summer draws to a close, the ducks at Pasta Lake, the large man-made pond behind Antonio’s Classic Italian Restaurant, spend their days practicing flight maneuvers and getting in shape for their yearly journey. They fly south every year around this time to escape the harsh Eastern Coastal winters.  All the ducks, that is, except for one.

Maynard, who has developed an obsession with Antonio’s pasta, spends most of his days and even some of his nights rummaging through the trash out back at Antonio’s.  Not only is he not practicing his maneuvers, he has gained so much weight that there is a real question as to whether or not Maynard will even be able to become airborne, let alone fly. Zolie, the lead duck, is troubled by Maynard’s continued lack of attendance at flight exercises and goes looking for him at about the same time as Antonio, the restaurant owner. Antonio comes flying out of the restaurant, dish towel waving wildly, and kicks the trash can over, yelling at the top of his lungs at the fleeing Maynard, “I’m-a gonna make duck soup outta you one of these days if you don’t stop digging in my trash and makin a mess for me!!”

Maynard hightails it off the back patio, half running, half flying, and around a tall stand of cattie-nine tails and “FWUMP” crashes right into Zolie, knocking him completely over, flat on his back. Maynard, puffing from exertion, stops dead in his tracks, and helps the slightly dazed Zolie back onto his feet. “Oh, Zolie, I am so sorry! Really sorry!” the embarrassed Maynard exclaims as he helps Zolie up. “Maynard!” the frustrated Zoli says sternly, brushing himself off, trying to regain his balance as well as his dignity. “Your pasta-consuming behavior is entirely unacceptable! What is happening to you? We’re going to be leaving tomorrow before daylight. How are you ever going to be able to fly with us?” “I’ll be there and ready, sir,” says Maynard, saluting and clicking his heels together smartly, in a pasta-pudgy kind of way. “I hope so,” says Zolie, quietly, shaking his head. “I sure hope so, Maynard. You know the rule. If you drop out of formation, you’re on your own.” “I know sir. I won’t drop out of formation. You’ll see!” says Maynard, flexing his wings to show his strength. “Hope you’re right, Maynard,” says Zolie, turning to head back to his favorite roosting spot for hopefully a good nights rest before the big day tomorrow. “I sure hope you are right!”

Morning comes and the ducks gather in the darkness, breaking the stillness with excited quacking commotion. They plunge upward into the sky, taking flight. They circle Pasta Lake, the area where they spent many happy summertime hours, in a noisy farewell salute before getting into “V” formation and down to the serious business of flying south for the winter. Maynard is among them, but at the very tail end of their formation. The sun rises and all the ducks are jubilant; enjoying the exhilaration of flight. Maynard’s thoughts take him away from the flock, however. His stomach growls ferociously, and, for all his trying to turn his mind away from food and focus on keeping up with the other birds, all he can think about is Antonio’s pasta. He sighs and takes a deep breathe. He’s beginning to feel fatigued. The ducks make good time. Soon they will be at a spot where they can rest for the evening. The sky darkens, however, even though it is too early for the sun to be setting. They are flying right into a storm.

Torrents of rain mixed with hail suddenly pelt the feathered aviators. The winds swirl around them, pushing them one way; pulling them another. The lightning cracks. The thunder rolls. Maynard feels as though he is in some slow motion nightmare. The darkness seemingly clutches at him. The fog suffocates him. He sees the flock moving away from him, and even though he is using every last ounce of his strength, he just can not catch up. Suddenly a gust of wind catches him, twirls him around like a pinwheel on a wooden stick, and then hurls him like a discarded candy wrapper downward, toward the ground.

Maynard falls through the sky like a meteorite, crashing finally, not to the ground, fortunately, but into some kind of canopy of some sort or another. He lands with an OOF, bouncing back into the air, back onto the canopy, back into the air, and finally comes to rest on his back, cradled in the hammock of the canopy top. Maynard is so tired that even with the howling wind, the pelting rain, the streaks of lightning and the booming thunder, he falls immediately to sleep, right where he lands.   Maynard awakens to the blinding light of a new dawn. The storm has passed. All seems quiet and well. He comes to full consciousness. Where is he?   Maynard pulls himself forward onto his tummy and glances over the edge of the canopy. What luck! He has landed atop a canopy, which of course, broke his fall. That was the first stroke of luck! The canopy sits atop a small wooden tower, just filled with the beautiful colorful leaves of fall; a perfect nesting place, and high enough above the ground to keep predators away!   Hmmmm.   Maynard can barely move his wings. He’s stiff from the exertion of flying followed by a night of lying in the pouring rain. He turns around and scoots backwards, slipping awkwardly over the edge of the canopy, feet dangling till they reach and finally come to rest on a side rail. He balances momentarily, clinging precariously to the edge of the canopy, and finally jumps onto the deck and into the pile of leaves.   Maynard varoofs around a bit, kicking up the leaves into a suitable pile which he is then just about ready to dive into when . . . “Wait . . . .what’s this?” Maynard thinks to himself. Something bright and shiny catches his eye. He digs a little deeper and pulls the bright and shining object toward him to get a better look. The first thing he notices is his own reflection. “Why, what a handsome duck!” he exclaims to himself, “even if I am a little beefy.” He laughs. He pulls what is a brass plate which must have fallen off the tower into the direct light to get a better view of the inscription on it. But try as might, he can't make it out.   He hangs the plate on the side of the tower where it catches the sunlight, and, of course, where he can catch frequent glimpses of his handsome devil self.   “Well, it’s not Antonio’s back pasta bin, but . . . that’s probably a good thing,” Maynard thinks to himself. “Its good to be away from the temptation of all that pasta . . . at least for a little while!” Maynard feels good. He’s safe; and even though he is alone and not even sure where, exactly, and horribly hungry to boot, he falls into a happy sleep, dreaming, of course, about Antonio‘s and the mountains of pasta he left behind.

By the time Maynard awakens, it is almost evening. He shuffles to the door of the tower. He considers flying to the ground, but his wings are still hurting him, and he is weak from not eating. Maynard takes the plunge and steps forward onto the slide. S - W – O - O - S - H!!!   FWHUMP!!! Maynard finds himself almost instantly at the bottom of the slide, lying over on his back on a soft pile of leaves.  “Wow!” thinks Maynard excitedly! “This is . . . FUN!”  He forgets about his hunger for the moment (which is pretty much amazing for Maynard when you come to think about it), climbs back up the ladder to the tower, and repeats the whole “slide” process maybe a dozen times. Maynard is having fun, and it doesn’t have anything to do with eating pasta. This is a miracle!!! Maynard has to pull himself away from his play, however, and begin a serious search for food. He really needs to eat something at least. He finds some greens and corn in what must have been a garden at one time and finishes off his meal with some juicy bug morsels and a round fat worm.

Maynard feels the need for some kind of action. He’s full, however, and climbing up to the slide doesn’t seem like the thing to do at the moment. He spies the swings. Hmmmm. He backs cautiously up to one, spreading his sore wings gingerly to grasp the chains, sits firmly on the seat, and leans back. He is pleasantly surprised as the swing begins to move forward, and just naturally begins the graceful rhythmic back and forth dance that is known as swinging. Maynard is pleased with the results. W H E E !!!! This is as close to flying as he can get at the moment; but, for the moment at least, it is close enough. Day passes into night; night into day; and day into night again and again and again. Weeks pass. Maynard gains strength. His backyard swing set play therapy is working. The swinging has helped to build up his wing muscles and the climbing around has helped every part of his body, just as the “keeping busy” and “working out” has helped to elevate his mood and help him to stay positive. Why, he can even fly for short distances, launching himself off the top ladder, the monkey bar top of the swing set, but he is not strong enough just yet, he realizes, to make the long journey south. He will have to weather the winter . . . all alone. The snowy weather descends upon him as he nests in his play tower. His reflection peering back at him from the brass  plaque is his only company. He rolls himself into a shivering feathered ball in an attempt to keep warm.  The wind is howling, and he is more awake than he is asleep all through what seems like a very, very long night, and very aware of a sort of emptiness inside. Maynard is lonely.

Then one day when he is practicing his flight maneuvers, venturing each day a little further than the day before, he spots something wonderful . . . another duck . . . walking awkwardly across the pond ice. Maynard’s heart skips a beat. He circles and lands.

Jule, a beautiful young she-duck just a little bit younger than Maynard is just as overjoyed to see Maynard as he is overjoyed to see her. He asks her to fly with him back  to what he now considers his home. “I can’t fly!” says Jule, shaking her head sadly. My wing . . . I think it’s broken.  There was this storm, and the wind blew me . . . right out of the sky.” “I know that storm very well!” says Maynard. “No matter. Come on. Follow me. We’ll walk!”

They walk. They waddle.. They sing quackey songs. They laugh. They nuzzle .They stop just long enough to scratch up some dinner, and then they walk some more, finally finding their way back “home” with just enough time to have some playtime before dark. Maynard introduces Jule to this magic playset that has become his home, his hideaway, and an important part of his healing, of his regaining confidence, and of his regaining strength. He is determined that she will have the same success with her healing process as he has had with his. He wants her to be able to fly again; so that next year they can rejoin a flock and fly south as is their tradition.  As darkness falls, a fierce wind starts blowing. The trees shake. Branches fly loose in every direction, and soon a blinding snow storm moves in upon them. He helps Jule climb the ladder to the tower. A pine branch which has blown into the tower has seemingly planted itself in the corner directly across from their nesting area. It is already covered with a layer of thick snow which glistens in the sparkling light of the full moon.

There is something magic in the air.  Maynard, looking at Jule, thankful  for the fact he is no longer alone, feels an overwhelming sense of  how very special this moment is, not only to him and to Jule, but . . . in the quiet stillness  . . . feels a sudden connectedness  . . . to everyone . . . and everything . . . everywhere on the planet . . . and maybe in the whole universe. Before they snuggle down together sharing the precious warmth of companionship, Maynard, with the solemn air of the tradition of the elders, picks his beloved  brass plaque off the wall where it has been hanging since the day of his arrival, and places it ceremoniously on the very top of the snow-covered branch adorning the corner of the tower, in just such a fashion that it catches not only the moonlight, but also the starlight, the sparkle off the newly fallen snow, and the smiles and the happiness of everyone and everything everywhere on this most perfect night of holiday happiness, this night of  common celebration, maybe each and everyone in a different manner, but, nonetheless, a night of sharing, of hope, of love,  and, as the brass plaque illuminates to reveal its special message . . . . . . of peace!

Ducks are not much for formal celebrations, but Maynard and Jule . . . along with Jet Dana and company . . . want to wish everyone a Joyous Holiday Season . . . no matter what the holiday might be:  Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanza, or a belated Ramadan, Bodhi Day, or Diwali, or it may have some other  name, or no name at all, but . . . May peace and happiness be upon you and yours . . . now . . . on this most magic night . . . and forever.