Saturday, December 4, 2021

The Ghosts of Dudley Farm

How do we measure progress? It depends upon who we are.

The capitalist measures progress in cement and steel, the return on investment, the expansion of the fractured skyline of the metropolis.

The bureaucrat measures progress in budget allocations, increasing efficiency and effectiveness, widespread acceptance of and conformity to organizational rules.

The farmer and the green witch measure progress in the health of crops and livestock, the cycles of growth and harvest and decay that mark the shifting cycle of the changing light.

I measure progress in the growth of spirit, development of clear vision, reclaiming the primordial knowledge that there is more to the world than meets the literal eye.


People are hungry for the psychic, not the fake-psychic telephone lines but the real psychic dimensions of spirit--which we have relegated to the realm of the psychological and psychosocial shadow.

I saw this hunger at a friend’s fourteenth birthday.

Ten girls--a group that ran the gamut from the very shy to the boy crazy to the troubled teen to the extraordinarily well adjusted--practically stormed the kitchen table where I sat in semi-darkness, flanked by a crystal ball and an assortment of lit candles, shuffling a deck of Tarot cards.

We played a Tarot game, and I taught the girls a smidgen of the ancient symbolism--pentacles for craft and wealth, swords for conflict and intellect, rods for country life and new beginnings, cups for love and intuition--and then I did a reading for each girl.

I sat for nearly four hours, from nine in the evening until after one in the morning.

“How’s the line in there?” the girls would call from the next room, wondering if their turns were getting near.

The most popular question was, “Will I have a boyfriend this year?”

One girl asked how she could improve her relationship with her father. Another asked how she could become a better person.

The readings were wildly divergent. Some were troubling, some were reassuring, others revealed the normal teenage turmoil of fourteen-going-on-fifteen-and-waiting-for-my-license-to-drive-and-permission-to-date.


Which brings us, in a roundabout way, to Dudley Farm. 

I come to the Tarot after years of interest and loving the images, but with very little real, practical reading time. The experience of reading for nearly four hours straight for a group of fourteen-year-olds was both exhilarating and exhausting.

When I’m weary, I always seek solitude in the countryside. So, the week after the Tarot party, I found myself at Dudley Farm twice in the same week. The farm is a home for my soul.


I could tell the story of the farm--how P.B.H. Dudley moved to the land near Newberry in western Alachua County before the Civil War, how his descendants farmed that land until the mid-1990s, how Miss Myrtle Dudley honored her mother’s wish to keep the farm intact by donating the homestead to the Florida Park Service so the land could be preserved as a working farm, how the Park Service dragged its heels with plans for the property until Miss Myrtle died and the bureaucrats suddenly realized that the farm was a potential cash cow.

But there is a level at which the farm must tell its own story to each visitor, must speak in the language of soil and sunlight, full moon and shadow, falling leaves and rain, legend and ghost story.


It is not hard to imagine ghosts at Dudley Farm--indeed, it is hard not to imagine them, here on the land where generations of Dudleys lived and loved and died--especially when time stands still on late October afternoons and the setting sun pours gold-orange shafts of light through the tree-lined lane in front of the old farmhouse.

In the early 1900s, it was down this lane that cattle were driven to market. It was down this lane that families arrived from nearby areas to shop or post letters at the farm, the community center for the area that we know today as Jonesville. 

And it was down this lane, one clear moonlit autumn night, that four ghosts came riding. 


Here is how the last Dudley to live on the farm, Miss Myrtle, described the haunting. 

She was a little girl at the time, and the front porch of the farmhouse was filled with people--probably relaxing and telling stories after supper and a hard day’s work--when the sounds of voices and horses’ hooves were heard coming down the lane. 

Four riders approached the front gate. Myrtle’s Uncle George stood up and went to the gate to meet the visitors, as was the country custom. 

But as little Myrtle and the whole porch full of people watched, all the riders simply dissolved into the clear night air. Disappeared. Vanished. In plain sight of everyone there. 

“It wasn’t just one or two people who saw it,” Miss Myrtle said. “The whole front porch was full. There wasn’t much sleeping going on here that night, after that experience.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, Miss Myrtle described another apparition who was often seen in the lane--a woman in a blue dress, walking, who vanished when anyone tried to approach her.

“They never did understand it,” said Miss Myrtle. 


But maybe it’s not so hard to understand, when you know that “Dudley” comes from an Old English word that means “place of the dead.” And when you know that it was to Dudley Farm that neighbors brought their dead to be prepared for burial. 

And especially when you know the farm on a cool October twilight, when scudding clouds blow past the waxing autumn moon. Then you can revel in the chill, feel the veil that separates the worlds of the living and the dead begin to part, and--out of the corner of your eye--maybe even see the ghosts of the past dancing in the air or moving across the land that the Dudleys farmed for more than a century.


I took a friend with me to the farm that week, a woman who is gifted with clear vision and so can see between the worlds. I told her about the riders at the gate and the woman in the lane, and how I worry that air pollution and modern life may wreak havoc on the old wooden buildings. 

I reminded her that I had asked her advice about preserving the farm once before, and that she had told me the only thing that could stop the destruction was an old person sitting on a front porch in a rocking chair.

“Look,” my friend said, pointing to the four rockers on the front porch of the farmhouse. “Look. All the chairs are moving.”

I looked. She was right. Each chair was rocking, ever so slightly, back and forth, back and forth.

There was no breeze. The chairs were empty. 


We are, all of us, hungry for the psychic. We have banished this dimension of our spirits to the nether worlds of illusion, television and motion pictures, repressed dreams of the soul that longs for contact with something larger than itself--something not split apart.

So now we rock on our porches and tell ghost stories in the twilight, whisper our visions in the dark, and begin, ever so slowly, to speak the truths that we have known, all along, but have been pressured by the idea of “progress” into forgetting.


And up the tree-shaded lane, four riders are approaching.

And up the tree-shaded lane, a woman in a blue dress is walking in the afternoon light.

(c) 1998 aww
Part of this appeared a number of years ago in an article in The Gainesville Sun. 

Friday, November 19, 2021

Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time there was a civilization that considered itself "advanced."

The people of that time were given priceless gifts by Mother Nature--clean oceans, fertile estuaries, and pure freshwater springs that sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight.

The people of that time were also given priceless tidbits of wisdom in old sayings, stories and scriptures that were passed down through generations:

  • A myth about another advanced civilization that had destroyed itself.
  • A scripture about the dangers of worshiping a golden calf (material wealth).
  • A cautionary tale about not shitting where you eat or drink.

And what do you think happened?

Kali Yuga (A Snippet)

The lie becomes truth
Up becomes down
The bold inherit the earth

Poles shift
Weather changes

We rearrange
Our lives

Wednesday, November 10, 2021

Today in Florida, I Will Attain Enlightenment (a Vow)


to benefit the manatee
I will attain enlightenment

to benefit the gopher tortoise
I will attain enlightenment

to benefit the panther
I will attain enlightenment

to benefit the scrub jay
I will attain enlightenment

to benefit the indigo snake
I will attain enlightenment

to benefit the key deer
I will attain enlightenment

to benefit the bonneted bat
I will attain enlightenment

to benefit the Miami blue butterfly
I will attain enlightenment

to benefit many tiny mice
I will attain enlightenment

to benefit the sea turtles
I will attain enlightenment

to benefit the sturgeon
I will attain enlightenment

to benefit the pigtoe mussels
I will attain enlightenment

to benefit the wood storks and roseate spoonbills
I will attain enlightenment

to benefit the American crocodile
I will attain enlightenment

to benefit all sentient beings
I will attain enlightenment

a word witch

Saturday, August 7, 2021

sliding into this dark abyss


climate change
global pandemic
sixth extinction

    I'm washing lettuce
    at the kitchen sink

Gulf Stream collapsing
ice caps melting
wildfires burning

    beautyberries turning purple
    outside the dining room window

science deniers
conspiracy theorists
angry coup organizers

    fox squirrels in the field
    deer feeding near the fence

    autumn light approaches

(c) lfm, 8/7/2021

Wednesday, April 28, 2021

Two Poems on the Parinirvana of My Buddhist Teacher/For Bardor Tulku Rinpoche


not apart, yet
not together

how to explain
this grief, this joy?

an orphan, with
mind full of jewels

I step into the world and
try to shine


year to year
month to month
week to week
day to day
hour to hour
minute to minute
breath to breath
everything changes

4-3-2021 and 4/28/2021

Sunday, April 11, 2021

What Are the Barriers to Springs Restoration?

Why are efforts to save Florida's freshwater springs so often doomed to fail? I think it's because of significant barriers that exist throughout our culture--knowledge barriers, legal barriers, funding barriers, political barriers, barriers of vision and value. Would we have more success if our water defender groups joined forces with groups outside "the choir" that are working to break down some of these barriers? What are other ways we could be more effective at dismantling or breaking through these barriers? It's clear that we need some outside-the-box thinking.

  • Apathy/feelings of powerlessness (public, elected representatives, government agency officials, etc.)
  • Greed (ex: special interest political campaign contributions lead to outsized influence on elected representatives; resistance by corporations and businesses to behavioral changes that would result in lost profits)
  • Ignorance, including:
    • Ignorance of Florida's hydrological cycle
    • Ignorance of interconnections throughout the Floridan aquifer
    • Ignorance of who makes water-related decisions and how those decisions are made/political issues
    • Myth of an infinite supply of freshwater
    • Failure by elected representatives and agency officials to recognize water as a public interest/common interest
  • State of Florida funding favors South Florida needs over North Florida needs
  • Free water in rural areas/need for tiered water pricing to encourage conservation
  • Lack of accountability for state agencies
  • Current laws permit damage to natural systems instead of preventing it/natural systems lack their own rights to exist and to thrive
  • Regulation of non-point sources of pollution prohibited at the federal level
  • Ineffective Best Management Practices (BMPs), Basin Management Action Plans (BMAPs), Minimum Flows & Levels (MFLs), Total Maximum Daily Loads (TMDLs) that offer only an illusion of protection for springs
  • Reliance on ineffective water models and cherry-picking of model data
  • Shifting baselines:  Few know what we have lost.
  • Decreasing levels of state enforcement of environmental regulations
  • No environmental checks and balances:  water management district board members appointed by the same person (governor) who appoints the head of the Florida Department of Environmental Protection, no water defenders/environmentalists on water management district boards
  • Economy and environment falsely perceived and opposing interests instead of linked interests
  • Effects of regional water usage beyond the control of local agency officials
  • No widely agreed-upon water ethic
  • No clear definition of "public trust" in Florida water law
  • Short-term thinking trumps long-term thinking on the part of the public, elected representatives, agency officials, business and commerce

Saturday, March 20, 2021

Mistress of Magic

Note:  I originally published this post on March 24, 2009, but I took it down at Janis Nelson's request because she was not happy with one of my other posts that appeared on this blog; that other post was not about her. I have today learned that Janis died last year (2020) so I am re-posting what I wrote, because I believe that she has an important story that should be remembered. The website mentioned at the bottom of the article is no longer operational and I don't know if Janis ever felt as if she had received a "big victory in the city of the young." I do know that I am a wiser person for having known her.

 "...Morgan le Fay was not married, but put to school in a nunnery, where she became a great mistress of magic." -Malory, Morte d'Arthur

So begins one of my favorite novels of all time, Marion Zimmer Bradley's The Mists of Avalon—a riveting re-telling of the Merlin and Arthur legends from the point of view of the women involved.

The "mistress of magic" quote has always reminded me of my friend Janis Nelson. I first met Janis in the early 1990s, when I heard about her from a co-worker. I have been fascinated by things psychic and occult since I was very young, but was actively discouraged from pursuing these interests by my parents, who wanted me to be grounded in the "real world." (I'm still trying to figure out where and what that is, by the way.)

I had two aunts and a maternal grandmother who encouraged my interests, however, but I did pick up a healthy dose of skepticism somewhere along the way, so I never actively sought a psychic reading until my friend Sheri mentioned that she and her mother knew a psychic who did not advertise, but did all her business by word of mouth. I immediately decided that was the person I wanted to see—Janis Nelson.

I'm betting that if a Hollywood screenwriter had written a script about Janis's life, it would have been rejected by every major studio because no one would have believed it. Born and raised on Gallows Hill in Salem, Massachusetts. Largely self-taught in astrology and the Tarot while living a hermetic existence outside Woodstock, New York. Spirited away to Palm Beach, Florida, where she became the city's first licensed psychic and began reading for the rich and famous. Thrown into the middle of one of the sleaziest, most publicized private divorces in history, that of Peter and Roxanne Pulitzer. Libeled in numerous major media outlets, including Time magazine. Lost her reputation, her possessions, her livelihood. Sued for libel, but had her case thrown out of court because of mistakes in its presentation. Went from waltzing with Pavarotti at The Breakers to wandering barefoot around Gainesville and eating from dumpsters.

One day, shortly after her libel case had been thrown out of court, Janis went to the mailbox to find a flyer for a new series by Time-Life Books: "Mysteries of the Unknown." The first volume? Psychic Powers.Up until then, books about psychics had been hard to find. Today, they're everywhere.

Janis rebuilt her clientele, slowly, over the years, and she has written a book about her experiences—a psychic's eye view of a celebrity divorce. Her writing is unique. But even more than her writing, it's her story that intrigues me, because it speaks to what we as a culture have done now for thousands of years—banished what we don't understand about the psychic and the feminine to the netherworlds of silence and shadow.

Thankfully, things are changing. A psychic in Kingston, New York, predicted many years ago that Janis would have a big victory in the city of the young, a place where the devil lives in a big hole in the ground and the River Styx flows. Just northwest of Gainesville is Devil's Millhopper State Geological Site, a huge sinkhole; just southeast of Gainesville, down by Cross Creek, is the River Styx.

Janis is still waiting for her big victory in the city of the young. In the meantime, she's put up a website you can visit at:

And in a bit of serendipity, I just noticed that the word of today at is thaumaturgy, "the performing of miracles or magic." Hmmmmm....