I remember when I first saw them. It was late spring, and the sun was setting. Living on the west side of the road, they were nothing more than silhouettes. Now, months later, I see color and flair. Some are quiet, while others speak up.
Curiosity getting the best of me, as it always does, I began to research the meaning of the scarecrow. I did what I always do when I begin one of my great searches. I headed for the library. What would I find?
Blah! Blah! Blah! The scarecrow: the figure of a human made of sticks and straw used to scare the birds away. Blah! Blah! Blah! It took the place of people residing in the fields whose jobs were to scare away the birds. Blah! Blah! Blah!
This wasn't what I wanted. This was not telling me anything.
More research... Oh, here we go...The scarecrow was originally the Greek boy Priapus. He was so ugly that every time he went into the fields it scared the birds away. People began to erect statues of him to keep the birds from eating the crops. Well, that's the tamest story I've ever heard about Priapus. I've read He is a phallic god. Statues of him are erect penises.
Oh, here I go again: sex, sex, sex.
More research... Here's another one... The scarecrow took the place of human sacrifices, sacrificed in the fields to insure the fertility of the crops. Hmmm! Scarecrow... crows... the bird that portends death... hmmm! Okay, okay, I give up. Sex and death, sex and death -- I'm a quadruple Scorpio, what can I say?
Well, I like to dance and find myself frequently dancing with Death. Let's give it a shot.
The scarecrow's arms were stretched out, waiting for my approach. I reached for his hands and bamm! He grabbed me. Ouch! This hurts. He's got me. Oh no, I didn't realize this before. The scarecrow hangs on a cross, but not The Cross. I've got Jesus issues.
What is the cross anyway? Looming over my head, casting shadows in my path, nails all stuck in it, blood everywhere. What?
Research... Of course, the cross predates Christianity. All symbols do, don't they? Christianity is fairly new. The cross is in Voodoo. Oops! Better not say that word -- I'll get in trouble. Ahhh, shoot! Voodoo is exactly where I learned the meaning of the cross. Oh well, here goes.
The cross: an upright post with a bar across it. Thank you Webster. The Roman Cross has the bar going across it a little more than half way up. That's the one. That's the one my scarecrow is hanging on. That's the one I am now hanging on. Ooh, get me off this thing.
What the hell? The horizontal line represents physical reality; the vertical line represents mental reality. The intersection is the point where one transcends both realities thereby moving into spirit. Ahhh! The crossroads -- so that's why the crossroads are so important. Okay, I get it. Now let me off this thing.
Wham, bamm, another slam! My cat, Jazz, was attacked by a dog in May. He ran off into the woods and died a slow and agonizing death. I found him ten days later. He tried to make his way back to me. I found him no more than five feet away from where I was calling everyday. The dog bit him in the hind leg and ripped the muscle. Jazz lay there waiting for me to find him. There was a tree and a patch of blackberry bushes between us. I couldn't get around the bushes. I had tried. I felt like a fly in a spider's web, stuck in those bushes. Finally, it occurred to me to take a stick and move the bushes out of my way. There he was just on the other side. Laying like he laid on my bed everyday.
Well, I headed straight for the mirror. And what did I see?
One arm had been ripped from the cross. Blood was everywhere. My blood mixed with tears, what a salty mess. So that's it. It is my attachments that keep me nailed to the cross.
What are my attachments? Let's see: there was Jazz. There still is Teddy and Zallah. I love my cats. That's about it. What does this mean? They are all old. When they die, does the scarecrow fall off the cross, becoming nothing more than straw in the wind? "The answer my friend, is blowing in the wind. The answer is blowing in the wind."
Okay, I confess. The scarecrow in me is something of a clown.
Let me take another look into that mirror. Hmmm!
Sacrifice: the giving up of something. Ah -- don't even go near Jazz with that word. Stay away from him. He was my baby. Calm down Donna, you're the scarecrow; you're the sacrifice. That is supposed to bring me relief?
Go deeper.
Sacrifice: Latin root: to make sacred. I get it. Coming to earth is like being nailed to the cross because we are restricted by the limitations of physical and mental reality. We come here to be made sacred. This smells a little too Christian for me. I am not prejudiced against Christianity, so don't start casting those stones. It's just that there is too much suffering and sin attached to Christianity for my mental well being.
I need to talk to the scarecrows.
What do they have to say?
Ohhh! Check it out. The scarecrow's body is the cross. So the scarecrow is physical and mental reality. The intersection of the post and bar is at the heart: the point where mind, body and spirit unite.
We, the life on planet earth, are sacred. Coming here, living here and leaving here is all a sacrifice. We have to give something up each time we move from one place to another. Each second, each breath, each moment, given up for the next. Sacrifice -- sacred: I think I've caught a nowness. You know, one of those things or places where time does not exist and we see everything at once-- as it is.
Pop!-- goes the weasel! Just like that, I'm off the cross, dancing with the cross. Pop-- my partner disappears and I am the cross spinning on it's own axis. Pop-- I am the scarecrow dancing in the fields but tonight the moon is not full. It is somewhere between. It's a waning moon on the descent.
[Home Page | Other Articles in This Issue | FAQ | Local Resources]