Lemurian Mysteries

The night of the escape

2008-04-29T12:43:00.000-07:00

part 2 Two years later

2008-04-29T12:41:00.000-07:00

How well I remember every frightening detail of my last night on my beloved Iona. Once my mother kissed me farewell I was taken by the arm by Hilda, my personal protector , and rushed down the bank to a waiting boat.. She had been my protector and teacher ever since I was old enough to remember. As we crawled into the shallow boat I was relieved to see that she was coming with me. Even though she was much older then my mother, overweight, and not able to move very swiftly from arthritis I knew she loved me and would always protect me.
We could not have had a worst night to go on the water. It was dark, cold, breezy and a fine mist was falling. Worst yet the fog was rolling in. I was frightened, heart sick and cold but I was assured by Hilda and the two boat men that all this worked to our advantage. If the enemy saw us there was no predicting our fat e.
Hilda wrapped me up in a heavy blanket and encouraged me to try to get some sleep to help the time go by but that was impossible. I could not turn off my mind. Too much had happened to me in just a few hours. Mother and Hilda had known about this for a week and had been organizing the escape privately for me to leave immediately after my party but felt it best not to say a word until the time for my escape. As I was next in line for the crown, eliminating me was necessary to destroy the organization.. I could understand there reasons for top secrecy but it did not make the shock any easier for me. In the deep pocket inside my cape was a letter wraped in parchment, with all the instructions for my escape and future. For security I would reach in and touch the pocket wondering what would happen to me. I had never felt this horrible insecurity before.

To Alexandria

2008-04-24T14:45:00.000-07:00

For a year now I have been sitting in a comunity in a remote countryside in Britiany. I must tell you about my exciting journey down the coast until l we hoo0ked up with a stagecoach to the interior and the community of my fathers followers. He is high priest in the Essene religion and the whole community have shared all the knowledge they had to bring me to this point in time. Today I turned 18 and have been accepted into Alexandria shared knowledge courses. I can not believe that all my and my mothers dreams are now coming true. Even though she was killed in the first invasion of Iona I know she is watching down on me and is sharing my excitement. Thanks to my fathers influences I can fulfill my destiny. The first thing I have packed is my journal which I fully intend to enter my adventures and progress but first I want to tell you about the trip to this village. It was scary but exciting and I just cant go on until I bring this journey up to date. The only sad part of this whole adventure is that I cannot share it with my mother.

In the mind

2006-06-08T08:33:00.001-07:00

I am not gone,
I just am not here.
In written words.

My eyes are not friendly
with the glare of the screen
So I go inside.

Danu still lives, and
Iona journey continues
within my mind.

With every passing day
the vision becomes clearer
to the pre history world

And Danue will continue
on her journey through time
to Alexandria

In the mind

2006-06-08T08:33:00.000-07:00

So I wasn't cut out to be a nice old lady!

2006-03-16T02:05:00.000-08:00

Yesterday a tiny pot
fresh basil for its delicate scent
frail color
leaves translucent against the morning sun
in my kitchen window

Today a grey green blob
thick and dark
a caterpillar weaving a trail of holes
curled
I kill the competition
and in my anger
find his brothers too

He's had his vengeance
I can't eat
my basil
despite
my victory

Intuition - Guardian of Lemurian Mysteries

2006-03-08T03:15:00.000-08:00

In the Land of Spells and Enchantments Intuition, one of the guardians of the Lemuria Mysteries, offers to look through her third eye and do a reading for you.

Too long on the road

2006-02-10T06:43:00.000-08:00

I've been too long at play
too long on a road that wanders in and out
through valleys
and distant mountains
watched the spring poplar blossoms burst
into green mists
plucked lotus flowers
talked to strangers
rested with tired bones on islands
danced
the dance of living
now I want to be with a few old friends
to know without talk the folk I've always known
to be with you without the need
to tell you
who I am

Lemurian Mysteries...

2005-10-08T00:50:00.000-07:00

is a lovely place to sit with fond memories. Thought I'd put some green beauty here from nature's bounty...enjoy.

By the Lake

2005-10-05T15:16:00.000-07:00

The Raven Harp

You know, of course, of the Loom –
for ‘tis part of each spirits memory
of the musical score on which this Attention
is writ and gifted thee in Covenant.

Close your nether eye and rest –
the woof strands stretch from whence to everbeen,
numbering twenty-four in Current suspension
which is of our being and endearment.

Pray ignore for a moment –
the slipp’ry shuttle and fine colored thread
you have chosen for a tapestry of being,
and claim a new image of wonder.

Imagine a cosmic harp –
one of known strings turned tight and tuned,
that murmur Aeolian before the breath of god,
never stilled except by your intention.

Escape Hamlet’s dilemma –
for there are three, not two choice of being;
and these can be mixed and varied in delusion,
save you must act within each Current sound.

You may just enjoy the song –
Simply reaching out with proud soul whiskers
to embrace the vibrations in profound ecstasy
that sing of eternal love and creation.

Or you may pluck the strings –
joining with that vibrant touch of wisdom,
and adding to resonance and sound quality
to caress all spirits so drawn in kind.

Lastly, you may mute the string –
dampen its bold power and energy;
and in so doing choose to deny Source and all,
casting a vote to end this Attention.

faucon

Too long on the road

2005-10-05T06:03:00.000-07:00

I come home to this quiet zone
missing old friend along the way
Let us have a day soon
together around the lake
and talk of places
we met in days gone by

2005-08-11T08:18:00.000-07:00

The letter

2005-08-11T08:14:00.000-07:00

After reading the letter mother sat silent for what seemed an eternity.
�Mother, what will we do�
A tear ran down her face as she finally turned towards me and said, �My daughter, it means you must leave and it must be tonight.�
I gasped as I almost screamed, �You mean us don�t you mother!�
�No my darling, I mean you !�
� I must stay with my sisters and help them through this terrible time. I can not desert them t when they may be facing death or worst, capture. You must be brave and go before me. If the goddess is willing I will join you one day. She will show me the way�

Gone to the Hermitage

2005-08-11T05:09:00.000-07:00

The place is almost deserted. Everyone seems to have packed up their things and gone to the Lemurian Hermitage for the festivities as travellers stop on their way to the camp of the Amazonian Queen.

A map to guide you is pinned to the front door. I am sure, once the festivities are over folk will drift back down here and reclaim this space.

The Abbess

The Talon

2005-08-10T02:52:00.000-07:00

I introduced the 'Talon' in 'Sentinels',
another character based on scant myth sources
I have gleaned in my Gusari research.
Because of responses from SCA publications
I have fashioned garb for this persona including
a brace of knives across my chest and a cloak
that hides my bow and looks like wings in motion.
As an off-shoot, I have proved that such a cloak
could actually stop enemy arrows.

Sadely, this blog does not allow display
of the verse in its 'split line' medieval form;
with the paired lines next to each other,
by a column space -- and read with a break

Talon of Styria
(stair-ee-ah)

All dread whispered him the Talon
the Talon of Styria
None knew from whixt he faire came
none dare ask of his destiny.

He appeared to stand in shadow
even blaze 'neath the crown of noon
For falling crest hid but pale eye
and ever cloak reached to the ground.
Black were the boots on gliding feet
silver the strips of lamellar mail.
Five were the knives upon his chest
tight were the cruel lips of scorn.

All dread whispered him the Talon
the Talon of Styria
None knew from whixt he faire came
none dare ask of his destiny.

Strong bound left arm was never seen
for his cloak fastened at the wrist
To a gauntlet set with razor teeth
and a flail of leather and steel.
No coward ever saw sword and lived
his long reach hand was never still.
Raven locks were woven with feathers
but scarce hid quivered arrows true.

All dread whispered him the Talon
the Talon of Styria
None knew from whixt he faire came
none dare ask of his destiny.

For the trav'ler was an archer
with Turkish bow strung at has side
Never seen until moment of death
only heard as the shriek of the moon.
No song more feared nor reach endured
than the launch of arrows of time,
For the world stood still in silence
'neath the glare of the baleful eye.

All dread whispered him the Talon
the Talon of Styria
None knew from whixt he faire came
none dare ask of his destiny.

Yet no mother need fear his stride
and children danced about his stand,
Bold snarling dogs skulked away
while every cat entwined his legs.
His swirling falcon wheeled above
the woods alive with glowing eyes,
For some knew he was a Watcher
a Guardian of workers of Light.

All dread whispered him the Talon
the Talon of Styria
None knew from whixt he faire came
none dare ask of his destiny.

Wherever men work at fine purpose
extend stranger an open hand,
Who laugh at simple folly
and ever protect Mother's land,
There will quiet pace a Watcher
a mirror of each man's soul.
If you be afraid, look within
for life's sword has a double edge.

With a flick of his head he quickens
with a soft hidden golden eye.
His smile can light the darkest gloom
for the Goddess is ever near.
His cloak is lined with eider down
dashing hand can catch falling tear.
His prance is the dance She gave him
what you see is the squire of dawn.

Wave with pure heart at the Talon
the Talon of Styria
Love will know from whixt he faire came
all who share his eternity.

Interview With Gorgons

2005-08-08T20:01:00.000-07:00

After an audacious dance for the Gorgons, at the House of the Serpent, where the Travelling Trevere' performed I was granted an exlusive interview with the Gorgons.

H.B. I must confess I felt nervous when I learned that you were prepared to be interviewed by me. I have heard all the stories about your snake like hair, your petrifying powers, your capacity to turn people into stone and I believe that the expression 'A Goddess scorned has fury indeed' comes from people who have suffered from your wrath. (The Gorgons smile like naughty young girls as I openly talk about their reputation.) So! I have bought a small box of photographs to share with you as a token of trust.

Gorgons: You have nothing to fear Heather. After that audacious dance we are delighted to have you do an interview with us. Clearly we need a better marketing machine after all these years of bad press but you know what they say, 'all press is good press'. At least our names are still on people's lips.
These stone figures you see surrounding us were not turned into stone by us but by the values of a patriarchal society which has placed so much emphasis on power and acquisition. The moment that you honoured ecstacy and joy and came with the Enchantress and those engaging travellers, you broke the spell and freed not only yourself but us. We can talk now after all these years of silence, after having been immobilized by the Hellenic Perseus who was no hero but a Gorgon slayer of the most unpleasant kind.

H.B. Here is a photograph of me as a beautiful young child.

Here is me as a young maiden

It seems so long ago. I'd hardly turn an eye now.
I'd hardly turn an eye now with all these bulges and the wrinkles of time.

Gorgons: Did you know that our childhood name was Gorgo? It was an affectionate name that our parents, Phorkys and Keto used. We were lithe, brown eyed and beautiful just like you. We knew the capricious thrill of joy as we danced, clicking our heels, and our father loved us. We fed on honey, gamboled freely over mountainsides, basked in the glories of nature, learned the sensual pleasures of the earth. The silenic, spirit of the springs and river taught us wisdom and we grew lithe and voluptuous.

H.B. My childhood was filled with joyous play. I remember lying under the gigantic pussy willow trees behind our house, remember playing safely at the abandoned Sugar Beet Factory. My innocence was broken when a relative offered to 'teach me' about sexuality. I ran and hid within the safety of the Cypress Trees but the sense of terror immobilized me for a very long time.

Gorgons.
This is too familiar a tale Heather. We were sea goddesses, known to all as the Gorgides and Gorgades. The name Gorgo never meant anything terrible, did not signify something ugly. Our parents never could have anticipated that we would be turned into terrifying creatures.

Some say that our mortal sister loved Poseidon, the dark haired God of the sea and laid with him in the soft grass. Others say that they desecrated the temple of Athene by making love there. In truth many men fear women's sexuality and seek power over them. Poseidon ravaged Medousa, removed her goat skin charity tunic without her consent. Medusa, who was Athene in another shape, made the Gorgon head wrapped in serpents and wore it on her aegis to warn would be invaders of their fate should they seek to emulate Poseidon. The gigantic shape of fear has been passed down, carried by women as a warning. On that day when you fled, Athene knew and gifted you with her aegis that has ever since protected you from such uninvited invaders. It is only man, with evil in his heart who need fear the Medusa aegis.

H.B. But what about Perseus? Didn't he slay the Medusa?

Gorgons. Obviously the Medusa's head was highly sought after, a grail for men who feared being turned into stone, who feared its power, lusted for its power. Perseus was not supported by Athene as legend would have you believe. He was no hero. He was a Hellenic invader, a destroyer, who came to take the Moon-Goddess powers and to steal the prophylactic Gorgon head. Perseus fought the Libyan Queen (Medusa) and decapitated her. It was this battle that ultimately led to the suppression of the matriarchal system and the violation of Neith's mysteries. (see The Greek Myths Graves 8.1)

Since that time women's powers have been usurped and immobilized. But now, as you come with the wily enchantress, into long closed places, you and other initiates will return with renewed creative powers. For you and your companions the Medusa curse is broken.

Sentinels

2005-08-08T09:48:00.000-07:00

Maybe Gusari

2005-08-08T09:09:00.000-07:00

At a church yard sale I found a bundle of three 'Cypress Knees", wrapped in braided grass string. Though only about 15" high they reminded me of three old ladies. I learned that this had been fashioned by a member's 12 year old son. At home, I placed them in a dish of back stones and today they sit in the corner of our 'Cozy' room. Few people ask about them, but all stare in captivation. Of course, the can read this ...

SENTINALS

No one lives in the village now, of course, though legend has it a most comely spot, and rich in berries, honey and deep, black soil. Some say it was near Szczecin above the Danuba. Others place it further south near the triple mountain. None can say -- it was centuries ago. Certainly the Sentinels have long since eroded away, or forever been lost to weeds and vine and mold. But … the curse was not laid by any man, but by the crones' own defiance of the Tengri -- so who is to say. Maybe it never happened at all -- just another story to rival the Babba-Yagga tales to scare children. You know they are there, though, don't you? Just ask your grandmother and see how she turns away. They are watching even now!

'Tis said a knight wandered out of the forest, up from the plains by a great lake where the battle with the Golden Horde had pulsed for days. He sought aid and comfort in this village he had defended with many friends now gone. Surely he would be welcome! Yet his way was barred by three crones of ancient age and practiced wisdom. His dismay pooled amidst the ferns at his feet, mixing silently with blood and sweat and fear.

"The blue eyed one cannot enter here -- you must proceed alone." The voice could have come from any of the cowled figures -- yet it came from all. Each was distinct in height and girth and vile smell, yet all were the same. The soldier did not move forward but allowed the sling to slip from his shoulder to ease the youth gently to the ground. This one's wounds were greater than his -- it was for this nokud that he sought help. Aye, the youth was an enemy soldier -- one the knight had personally bested on the field -- by chance at that. Part of the Mongol terror!

"The challenge was met and won. Of all fallen on the field save myself, he alone lives. At battles end all soldiers are one! It is said thee are the best healers in the Carpathians -- I charge you to attend to your service!"

The three voices shrilled in unity, "We serve men by right, but no invader will pass these gates. We will that he die! Your knightly honor has no province here! We three guard this pass, and we alone decide what is best for all men! We stand watch forever."

The knight was too weak to respond and knelt by the fallen warrior to check his wounds. Soon the shallow breathing would stop. A great silence pressed down and the terrible scene might have passed into shadows unknown. - except -- he came …

The crones drew back. They had never seen him, but they knew; never believed, but shivered. Yet while they clutched the air itself for space and being the knight felt a great sense of peace. The roiling dark clouds overhead that denied warmth to the crones opened in fluttering waves of caressing light above the fallen pair, and it seemed that even the stricken one smiled a bit. The stranger drew near. Some called him the Talon of Styria , hence of local call. Others claimed he was an Angel of Sidon of Crusader dread fame. Certainly he was Gusari, and possibly aligned with the Skomorokhi. It mattered not. That he came was enough.

The Talon raised his staff and a wing of falcons wheeled above and vanished to the east. He then unfurled his strange cloak to place beneath the warrior's head. Revealed now were the short Turkic bow, brace of knives, flail and sword. He wore no armor, but unwound from his arms long wraps of silk with which he staunched the ebbing blood. He sent the knight for instructed herbs, heedless of the crones who mumbled curses and spells with bitter tongues. Finally, one broke from the others to charge at the youth with a pointed staff. Instant thunder shook the crones to their knees as the noon-day brighten with a sword of lighting retribution.

"The Tengri protects this one now, called forth by your own foul charge and deceit. Offer your hand openly to all, or to none! You shame your gifts and forfeit your claim!" From the woods a hundred horses burst upon the glade. In the whispered memories they reared and cried and clawed back at the angry skies. Not true -- the Mongol ponies were far too disciplined. The young nokud was lifted gently to a litter made of maikhan blankets -- then the horde was gone.

A whirl of cloak and feathers only emphasized the deep, saddened words, "You are claimed watchers of this pass, sentinels for that which now will never come. Thus you have chosen -- stand well!" The knight knew naught what to do save follow the Gusari into the woods -- and he did not see what followed.

Hail fell from a now barren sky to pile deep about the huddled crones. Slowly their withered flesh turned to aged wood, their eyes to amber glows, their cloaks to graying stone. They watch now for ever-been, frozen in a fold of hateful spite; "All or none at all" scraped into the ground at their feet.

faucon

p2 Journey to Alexandria

2005-08-08T06:42:00.000-07:00

LM Aug 07
My memory is dim on the actual emerging from the tunnel but I do remember a heavy pressure on my body and what seemed like a huge explosion. The next thing I remember is that I was kneeling next to my mother, next to the sacred pond, on the island of Iona and I was the red headed girl.
I am sure that this day in my life will be etched in my brain forever. Today I turned 13 and all the women on our cluster celebrated from dawn until late afternoon. Not only was I celebrating turning 13 I was also celebrating the last of my youth without a man of my own. Girls were married by 14 and I had one year to make my choice. Even some of the favorite men were brought over from their island to join the celebration, including four boys my age that had been picked to be my possible mate. I was honored by being allowed to wear the flowing gown of women before pregnancy and my jewelry was woven with island flowers and precious stones. This day was definitely the happiest of my life, the happiest . until late afternoon. From late afternoon on I was thrown into the deepest sorrow imaginable. That is the moment chosen for me to relive. That is the moment I arrived out of the tunnel.
My mother and I knelled beside the sacred pond. She seemed unusually sad, and for such a joyous day I was beginning to worry. My mother was mother goddess to our whole clan and always seemed to be able to maintain a positive attitude through any problems her fellow sisters could encounter. Everyone loved her and turned to her for everything emotional but this time her emotions were on the edge and I felt it.
Then the worst moment of my life arrived. She pulled out a letter from her pocket and started to read it aloud. It was a note from my favorite aunt Sena. She too had Red hair like mine and a very similar personality. She did not live on the island with us but on the nearby island with the men. Early on she much preferred the company of men and when she became pregnant and had a boy outside the designated time for communion she was sent away. I always looked forward to her visits and today she had been allowed to be at the celebration. Evidently she had slipped this letter to my mother sometime during the day.

The Silence of Melting Ice

2005-08-07T19:09:00.000-07:00

Ice Melts in the

heart through silence,

in silence,

always in a silent moment,

before the rush of

joy comes.

Catastrophic Wail

2005-08-07T18:48:00.000-07:00

Oh where?
Does anything exist at all?
What is that wall,
between soul and
the sun? It's dark,
yet urges the reading
of the stones and
moss lying there,
statues of stone,
that magnetize the eyes.

Hold on,
or cast aspersions
on the wind? Where
does the soul go - where?
Where does it belong,
when there are
several roads to Roam?

Old as the rocks
that hem the garment
to the ground, wet
with seeping waters,
tears of years,
a pain in the heart,
O listen, hear, soul.

A companion on the road
(and there is always one)
says nothing goes on forever,
and is right,
as will be seen when this
moment of hell passes,
and is thoroughly
known.

copyright Monika Roleff 2005.

My journey to Alexandria

2005-08-07T09:40:00.000-07:00

Sitting here at my desk in Lemuria, staring at the blank pages in front of me, I am not quite sure how to begin. The logical place of course is at the very beginning but I am still trying to reflect on exactly what has happened to me. If I do not understand , how will my readers be able to follow logically what I am writing. The best way to begin is to state clearly that there is no logic, no time sequence, nothing in the right place at the right time. Things just happened when and how they chose. Perhaps time is a wheel with no beginning or end and we can take our home in the 20th century and sit it next to a village existing in the time of the cave men, and perhaps I can teach cave women to sew warm coats for their children on my electric sewing machine. Illogical? Now you know how this adventure went, so set aside your need for details to be accurate and I will try to relate my fascinating journey.
To start with I was late joining the elders and many went on a journey without me. I did not read the details too carefully so was not clear where I was to go or what I was to discover so I decided to hunt for the door that Heather had opened. I found an old rusty ring in the basement floor connected to a man hole cover. Perhaps this was the way, as their were lots of footsteps around it , but the cover was way too heavy for me to lift. The basement is very poorly lit but I rummaged around and finally found a long narrow board that I could push through the ring and use as a lever and the cover slowly slid to the side. I am always getting in trouble physically in the visible world for exhausting myself before I have gotten half way into my day but for some reason, as I dropped down the hole, I felt like I was instantly absorbing energy; almost as though I was ageless.
I seemed to be in a dark dirt tunnel that slowly sloped downward. This did not sound like what Heather described. The only lights were the pictures set into crevices along the walls that gave off a strange yellow glow. Each picture had a name at the bottom but I did not recognize any of the names. These must be the pictures of Heathers’ ancestors she mentioned.
I had been looking at the wall on my right but at a certain point I started looking at the pictures on the left wall as I moved deeper into the earth. It was at that moment that a twinge of familiarity entered my brain. That wall also had names I recognized below each picture, such as Bennett, Hickock, Burns, etc. This wall displayed my ancestors. I was so absorbed in this discovery that I did not notice that I had reached a fork in the tunnel. I continued down the left branch for quite a ways when I finally realized that there were no pictures on the right wall. I must have taken a wrong turn but the interesting thing about the right wall is that it now held large floor to ceiling mirrors. As I continued walking and looking into each one I saw myself, first as I am today and then continually shedding years as I walked along. The only difference was that every time I got younger so did my appearance. Even though it felt like me it no longer looked like me. Needless to say there was no turning back now. Especially since I could now smell sea air and see light flooding the far end of the tunnel. I was approaching something that felt strangely familiar. The mirror at my right now reflected a 13 year old girl that looked very much like the girl I once was, except that her hair was red, her face freckled and she had large dark brown eyes. I knew it was not me of this century. This was the point where I was forced to break away from any logical thinking.

The Heart - For Edwina

2005-08-06T18:28:00.000-07:00

This is from "Heart" written originally I know not when, but published in a beautiful small volume devoted only to Heart and the fire of Agni, in 1932. (I happened to find it second hand. I just loved your previous piece.)

"After our daily labours,

let us gather to discourse about the

Heart.

It will lead us beyond the domains

of earth

towards the Subtle World,

in order to

bring us closer to the sphere of

Fire."

Photo from Google search = "Burning Heart" Tulip.

Earth, Sky and Space

2005-08-06T16:53:00.000-07:00

I called you Agni, god of fire
Agni Devta, clear and just
I lay my heart upon your altar
With simple, artless
Trust

I called you Agni, god of fire
As lightflash through the storm is thrust
I lay my heart upon your altar
Where the stars told me I
Must

I called you Agni, god of fire
A smoldering, sky flaming lust
I lay my heart upon your altar
Ashes, ashes
Dust

Agni was one of three great gods in the Rig Veda and was also worshiped by the Persians until the time of Zoroaster. His personification of fire made him the center of the ancient Vedic worship. Agni took three forms: celestial as the sun, atmospheric as lightening, and terrestrial as fire. He is all that burns: sun, heat, stomach, lust, and passion. His three spheres are the Earth, Sky, and Space, the worlds respective of men, spirits, and deities. He is priest of the gods and the god of priests, and serves as liaison between gods and men. His fire altar was oriented toward the East, the direction of the sunrise, the ever-new beginning.

The last stanza of this poem was written when I was in college; actually, it was written on the fly leaf of my Lit to 1650 text book, where it is still. I added the first two stanzas in 2003 upon studying more about the three incarnations of Agni.

The Passion

2005-08-05T18:35:00.000-07:00

Beautiful
talk of love and
hearts,
burning,
is the passion
that
decimates ice,
and
red,
the colour of
love,
is bright
like new blood.

copyright Monika Roleff 2005.

Remembering

2005-08-05T17:30:00.000-07:00

Now Love

We speak of time as if it here and now,
checked in moments and clicks of surrender.
Yet all that matters is the touch of love
which has no rush of time or lonely place.
What time is it now? Where is when past.?
Either you love me forever or not now
and play with shifting sands and blowing clouds.
There is no past call of life in shadows
that compares with a commitment true.
Either you are here and closely divine,
or you are not here for me at all.

Memory

2005-08-05T13:48:00.000-07:00

I wonder at times
About the blessing or curse
Of memory
Selectively piercing, it gifts me
Vastly varied strings of jewels
Which glisten from absolute emptiness
To something vague, shimmering and hollow
Behind which I know there is content, but cannot see or feel it
Through bits of beautiful, broken mosaic that won’t form a picture
All the way to the bright, incisive bite of recalling and reliving
Every word, every expression
And the entire, enveloping veracity of every feeling
That coated my throat, quickened my blood, sang beneath my ears

I remember
Holding a daisy in the tips of my fingers
Pulling the petals with a soft, satisfying tug
“He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.”
Warmth, a bright yellow fire, surged
Through my chest, down the insides my arms
Curving my backbone, all the way to my bare toes in the cool grass
Behind my forehead a huge, smooth expanse of quiet joy
The color of candle-lit alabaster
If they had turned me inside out
I would have bled light

I remember

©Edwina Peterson Cross

The Myth and Romance of Tulips

2005-08-05T06:02:00.000-07:00

In Ancient Persia, Farhad, a Persian youth, loved Sharin, a beautiful girl. He adored her madly and deeply from a distance, and that love was returned, and grew in their hearts. But a jealous rival gave Farhad a message that said his beloved Sharin was dead. Agonised, and with no reason left to live, he threw himself over a cliff. But Sharin wasn’t dead, and when she heard he had died she was inconsolable. The ancient gods of Persia made tulips grow in the ground where Farhad had fallen, immortalising their love in the form of a beautiful flower which blooms each Spring.
copyright Monika Roleff 2005.

He Loves Me..He Loves Me Not.. (And So On..)

2005-08-04T23:47:00.000-07:00

Imogen Crest Takes to the Hermitage

2005-08-04T17:38:00.000-07:00

The harried halls,
the market stalls,
the many balls,
the crying calls -
enough!

Weary of the
corridor of war,
through history,
I take to the
hermitage.

I sit and learn
what is of value,
thought of as odd
to spend time in
myself and with
the One.

The oak shields
my stone sill, the
eagle sits on the
tower, the wind
brings a banner of
gifts to me.

Odd it is not -
to seek what is
true. It is odd
not to, if
you know what I
do.

Yours, if only for now,
- Imogen Crest.
copyright Monika Roleff 2005.

2005-08-04T13:15:00.000-07:00

Never Surrender

A Different Psalm

2005-08-04T13:04:00.000-07:00

Bush is NOT my shepherd
For I made a different decision
In the voting booth
I am an American
I have the right of dissent

I dwell in Ashland, in Jackson County, in Oregon,
Where I actively work each day
Plying that right
At the grass roots, in the local council seats, in the county commissions, in the state assembly
I prepareith, even now, in the face of my enemies,
For in my country we have a voice
In my country there is a choice
And 2008 will come

And so I fight
I fight every log that falls
I fight for education and the arts
I fight to stop AIDS, world hunger, violence against women
I fight for peace
I stay aware
I know what is going on
It isn’t easy, it is hard work,
I write to congressmen and senators. I write to newspapers. I give money. I walk when there is a protest.
My generation of American’s stopped an unjust war
We can save our trees
We can save our arts
We can save our educational system
We can wage peace and better our world
But not by sitting on our assets

Yea, though I walk through the valley of pollution and war,
I will try to change it
My children have never known anything but recycling and ecology
My town is prosperous, green and clean
I will actively work everyday toward change that will allow the rest of the world to someday be the same
I supportith the politicians who wage peace
Who value humanity, education and the arts
Who seek to save the earth
National, state and local
I seekith them out
I knowith their names
I lickith their envelopes and stuffith their mailings

I supportith my values at the font of their springs
For the arts, for education, for world hunger, for world peace, to stop violence against women and children
I volunteerith my time, I givith my money, I donate my work, I attendith their meetings, I sit upon their committees, eternally, do I lickith their envelopes, in perpetuity do I stuffith their mailings

I have more that is better and costs less
Than most of the world
I enjoy freedoms that to some are unimaginable
I will not bow my head beneath what is wrong
For the system under which I live
Gives me the right to fight

I raiseith up a generation of American’s who care
A large, gifted circle of young men and women to whom art is life, ecology a byword of existence and peace something they will never stop seeking
They are the future
Those children you are glad not to have will be theirs
They will never stop working and fighting to effect any change that will make the world more beautiful, safe and free for the children they will bring into it
They are discouraged, they are frightened, but
They are not whiners, takers or slackers
They are fighters
They are politically active and very aware
They do charity work
They volunteer
They send $10.00 to Oxfam and to ‘One’
Because $10.00 is all they have right now
They ply their professions with passion: one day they will have more than $10.00 to give, and they will still be giving; giving of their money, their time, their talents, their souls.
They will dwell in my heart forever

They are Americans
So am I
Proud does not mean arrogant
That is a stereotype
We will not wear
Around our wrists we do wear
A purple band:
“Never Surrender”
We are angry
We are not complacent
We are the minority
But we have been gifted
With the right
To effect change
And that,
We will
Never
Surrender

http://www.workingassets.com/
http://www.democrats.org/
http://www.heifer.org/
http://www.oxfam.org.uk/
http://www.one.org/
http://www.sierraclub.org/

On the Horizon

2005-08-04T09:31:00.000-07:00

Many of you are not 'American" (arrogantly USA),
but may relate to the future clouds of sorrow ..

Rather chilling..

Subject: 23rd Psalm according to "Dubya"

Bush is my shepherd, I shall dwell in want.
He maketh logs to be cut down in national forests.
He leadeth trucks into the still wilderness.
He restoreth my fears.
He leadeth me in the paths of international disgrace for his ego’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of pollution and war,
I will find no exit, for thou art in office.
Thy tax cuts for the rich and thy media control, they discomfort me.
Thou preparest an agenda of deception in the presence of thy religion.
Thou annointest my head with foreign oil.
My health insurance runneth out.
Surely megalomania and false patriotism shall follow me all the days of thy term.
And my jobless child shall dwell in my basement forever.

I am only activily political in support of persons with disabilities,
which means daily anymore. And in support of 'faith',
which is quickly becoming a profanity.

Glad I'm not having any more children.

Please forgive my tears

faucon

Ancient Lemurian Skies

2005-08-04T05:29:00.000-07:00

Imogen Crest Captures The Castle

2005-08-03T23:12:00.000-07:00

CRAC DE CHEVALIERS - SYRIA circa. 1000 YEARS AGO

Orkneyjar - Islands North of Scotland

2005-08-03T20:17:00.000-07:00

These images of beauty come from Orkney, a group of islands off the Northern tip of Scotland. The name is Old Norse and means "Seal Islands". The first depicts standing stones, with an ancient sword settled firmly in the earth, the next is a Sanday Sunset, and the last is St Magnus' Cathedral with its sun-filled graveyard. I loved my mind journey here, and became entranced by the beauty I saw there, the peace of a thousand hours, now.

(If of interest, the site can be reached by inserting "Orkneyjar" into Google where you may find this beautifully crafted site and its wonderful treasures for the senses. Images are downloadable desktops provided on the site, by Sigurd Towrie.)

More Gusari

2005-08-03T16:48:00.000-07:00

SKIN

The ancient lodge was unique both in structure and setting. It could only be reached over a narrow bridge that was easily drawn back from the crevasse that separated the splinter of cliff from the meadowed village proper. In an earlier age, perhaps this protection had been necessary. Now the tribes of the Alani were at peace and the great lodge only served its spiritual function. Two by two we came, bound more by our knife scarred palms than by mothered gift.

Four posts held the rafter beams aloft and actually grew up from the ground, proof that the forest had once carried far. Stroking from a thousand hands had refined their shapes and oiled their preservation. They each had a name unspoken, but long forgotten was their meaning and language. Only ritual remained. Into each trunk were set three benches that radiated out toward the center fire, their forward ends supported by boulders hewn from the high Carpathian peaks. On each bench would sit an elder with a novice between his knees. Trebusca, the Magic 24! Each had a role in preserving the verbal history and ceremonial traditions of their ancestors. Each pair would sustain death and rebirth many times in ritualistic training and disciplined transference.

The hall filled with smoky shadows and scents both sweet and pungent of fear and anticipation. Wilglon, the shaman had not yet come. My back felt cold without his presence and forceful support and my thoughts turned to his spirit. He appeared rather than came!

I accepted that his changing age was not only the affect of smoke, flickering embers and fir branches waved in evening graced mystery. Neither did I understand. When he spoke of things ancient and arcane, of kinship with the scents of the Earth, the call of elk’s blood, an evil presence, and the sound of the moon – then he was a paradox of youth. Emotion born not of a little fear blurred vision to be replaced with images of a strapping lad with long black hair trailing in the wind and bare feet impervious to the rocks and thorns. When he spoke of things new and vibrant, of the challenges of new inventions, our lost traditions, the wiles of maidens, and the sound of the moon – then wrinkles sank deeply into a visage scarcely separated from shoulders bowed with timeless burdens. He is the Shaman of our people and a vital substance in our lives though most now wear the Christian cross. He knew my great-grandfather. My brother carries a wrap of otter skin made last year by his hands. But there is a chill in the air this night not part of nature, and kinsmen are gathering in the lodge corners from miles away. I am the Chosen. I must die so that I can be rebirthed here. I am unprepared! My name is to be Kiyan.

Wilglon has said that I have learned all that he can teach but I know in my heart this is not so. My spirit is simply not yet prepared to understand the next level. Perhaps this is the purpose of all study; the acquired information is not as critical as the confidence to use it. We foolishly say, “If I only knew,” but it is the work invested in gaining the knowledge that is prime! I have done that. By Alani standards I have the acknowledged credentials of my craft but lack the anointment of power; the passing of pouch, stones, feathers and bones. Can a simple bag make such a difference? As I clutch it to my breast will I lose touch with my friends to draw wisdom from the stream and cedars? Is it a legacy or a curse?

It has begun.

The main content of the pouch is a tanned rabbit fur that serves to protect fragile contents and mat for simple slight-of-hand effects and more intricate forecasting and divining feats. Tonight, for the first time, the skin has been placed face down and an outlined circle is visible in the center that is hidden in the fluff from the working side. Slow, yet nimble fingers remove a thread and the patch falls away. The altered skin is spread before me. Swaying shadowy figures have begun a chant to subdue the whispers clutching at my attention. The glowing embers flicker through the skin’s new aperture and I am drawn to the center of all things. The Shaman’s voice seems to come from a distant place.

“We have talked much about the fabric of life which, when firmly defined and intact, can be stretched into a useful support. Now that the skin is flawed it cannot hold its shape and even the form of the hole becomes distorted. Understand that the spirit within us is much like this hole. It cannot be grasped or moved or painted to our desire. It is only by reaching through the hole to touch things you cannot see that will set you apart – that will set you free. The hole in the skin is nothing. That is what I bequeath you my friend – nothing!”

I staggered outside and held up the skin against the night sky. I felt the press of the heavens through the furry eye, and heard – NO!

The moon passes behind the shimmering clouds. The old man is gone, forever!

Riding With Amazonians

2005-08-03T15:44:00.000-07:00

I have grabbed my great grandmother's old saddle bag and I am wearing the cloak from the Isle of Ancestors as I ride out with the Enchantress with another group of adventurers. We are headed for the Camp of the Amazonians and may ride with them if we are lucky. I will maintain contact with everyone in the Abbey by Raven Courier.

The first group have straggled in to the House of the Serpent in time to celebrate the Day of the Serpent. They have currently been having private sessions with the Gorgon and are singing for her. I am sure many will proudly sing here once their audience is complete.

If anyone here wants to join us you are all most welcome.

Imogen Mourns Beauty...

2005-08-01T23:27:00.000-07:00

In a fortress of old,
lavish white stones,
long, long ago,
a white dagger
was swathed in a black
sheath.

Beauty had no
knowledge of this,
I watched her become
enslaved to the Prince,
given, for no price at
all, yet her bounty was
considerable.

I hid, in the cracks
of the parchment
that sealed their vows.
A sylph of rainbows,
an innocent smile,
and there,
the white dagger
emerged.

Her colours were
gone, - I clutched
my bright skeins
in fear of losing them too, -
such was my soul's shock,
at seeing it done,
before my unseen eyes.

I know not what
became of them, but I
heard her name had
changed to reflect one colour -
that's all - and heard
the deafening sound of
the wailing wall.

Yours, if only for now,
- Imogen Crest.
copyright Monika Roleff 2005.

Found Inscription - Rosslyn Chapel

2005-08-01T00:13:00.000-07:00

"'Wine is strong a King is stronger, women are stronger still, but truth conquers all' -- the text which comes from the book of Esdras, ch 3 & 4. "

On my wanderings amongst the vast libraries here, I found the above inscription in Latin that is written in Rosslyn Chapel in Scotland. (For further reading on this wonderful Chapel with its rich history, put Rosslyn Chapel into Google and select the official site. Enjoy...)

The Life of Imogen Crest

2005-07-31T22:24:00.000-07:00

Incense mystified the enigmatic
halls where I once roamed,
a novice, dressed in
robes.

By book, my scroll,
my pen and dark ink,
my wayward hound and cat,
my pillow of spun silk in red,
the fragrant
rose of lavender.

I am a frieze on a
plastered wall,
still wandering
in my halls and alleys,
cloistered there,
to surmise, not judge.

I am neither you
nor I, cast of
many colours
and skeins.
You might see me in
a tapestry of days?

I saw the rose beginning to
bloom,
I saw the stone on the
tomb,
I saw my knight laid
still,
Rusty hill.

Tonight I think
to spin straw
into gold,
and drop my silken
locks,
on some
poor merchant's sill.

Yours, only for now,
in good faith,
- Imogen Crest.
copyright Monika Roleff 2005.

Silent Mother

2005-07-31T03:53:00.000-07:00

with a nod to Monica ...

after 9-11, I went to the forest,
afraid of the foreseen
"lash of vengence" even then.
I walked through unused campgrounds,
and beautiful spots defiled by
vandalism, litter and man's "necessities".

One piece I wrote then was "Mother Earth",
and many who have read it think
I am speaking of a lost loved one,
or of my childhood dreams ..

but you here will know better.

faucon
.............................................................

MOTHER EARTH

Of the cottage small there is a wall,

anchored in Mother Earth,
where orchids bloom 'neath a rosemary bush
and birds gather to nest in security
near the window of your birth.

In a hidden cleft near the cottage,

water springs from Mother Earth,
where soft ferns wave in peaceful silence
and leaves swirl in slow colored ecstasy
in tune with some laughing mirth.

On the hill there's a path in the forest,

cut into Mother Earth,
where squirrels play in flickering sunlight
and feathered moss hides in the shadows,
protected by the cedar's girth.

There's a tiny cave on a ridge in the forest,

eye into Mother Earth,
where my love lies in peaceful surrender
now safe from the pain and sorrowed travail
that companioned her labored breath.

There is an alter by that pile of quiet stone,

deep in Mother Earth,
where I do pray every day for God's blessing
to blend with the pulse of heaven here found,
in the bosom of Mother Earth.

Laurel Woman

2005-07-31T03:03:00.000-07:00

Laurel woman searches the deep caverns of the earth -- nothing escapes her notice. She watches over the lichen that forms on the trunks of trees, to see if it's frilling right. Chasing after signs of disorder, she sends wisdom messages, order, order. Watching over the birth of baby birds, and that owls make their presence known in the deep dark night. Her fingers are black like trees, combing the earth there, sorting, reminding, teaching. Sometimes she hides in the mist, when she has seen enough. She watches over the design of the spider web, the wild bee hive, the hornet's nest. Other times she is the nightmare in the night, urging, waking, keeping order over all living things. When she is done, she slips back into the trunk of a Camphor Laurel tree...invisible.
copyright Monika Roleff 2005.

Enigma of Trees

2005-07-30T19:31:00.000-07:00

We saw today, toward the end of our walk in the Botanic Gardens, something that surprised us. It was an old cypress pine, one of the original ones from the mid nineteenth century, and its trunk was old and stiff. Yet its growth was still green. Last year in summer there had been a storm, knocking down some older trees whose roots had done their work, and since then new ones were planted amongst the many surviving ones. But this one was very old and had appeared to have found a mate.

In David Suzuki and Wayne Grady's latest book called simply "Tree", there are many facts that indicate trees in forests "commune", not just in groups, but communicate, in order to preserve the good of the whole. They share root space and nutrients, across large areas of land, for they know they protect the life that depends on them for survival, the birds, insects, animals and also the understory from the ravages of too much sun. Trees actually link through their root systems, swap nutrients, and grow to accommodate each other.

This old cypress had a brand new growth, and we wondered what it was. It curved its smooth trunk up close, from the earth, right up the knarly older trunk, as if it were a ballast. The top of it was green with fresh Moreton Bay Fig leaves, nestled in a cheek to cheek dance with the older tree, quarter way up its tall height. These trees share space with the Cypress Trees and have done so for over a century. It seemed a courteous arrangement for the younger shoot to oblige the older one, lending a hand to the trunk which we saw, on closer examination, had been damaged where a branch had broken off, perhaps from the summer storms. The tree had been in danger of falling over completely because of the missing branch.

Seemed to us this is what life is all about -- and the enigma of trees.

copyright Monika Roleff 2005.

2005-07-30T16:08:00.000-07:00

Elk Woman

Of The Grandmothers

2005-07-30T15:47:00.000-07:00

Elk Woman

She came out of the cabin toward them, an old, old woman wearing rumpled slacks and a dusty brown sweater. Around her neck was a large chuck turquoise necklace; in her ears, mismatched turquoise earrings one of which had a feather fluttering from it; on her fingers were several large turquoise rings. She walked slowly, slightly bent over, and she carried the lighted stump of a candle. The two men looked at each other, one raised his eye brows; the other shrugged. She hobbled across the yard slowly and it seemed painfully, her hair was cut short and was a wild white bush around a deeply tanned, wrinkled, old face.

The men were equipped with the most expensive “outdoors” equipment to be found while surfing the web from an office in New York City. They had been planning this trip for a long time and had blueprinted everything from their 100% breathable gortex jackets to the emergency rations and space blankets, folded compactly at the bottom of their packs. It had all started when instead of their usual Club Med vacation they had gone to a Zen Yoga retreat in Arizona. It had begun as a kind of a lark, but there had been people at the retreat who had informed them that they had “potential.” Both of them had always known they had potential, but these people were talking about something different than the ability to make it in business. Dave and Stu were both up and comers and somehow they throughly enjoyed the idea that they had “spiritual” potential as well as the ability to make a killing in the corporate world.

Several months ago they had attended a seminar in Madrid where they were taken aside by an old man. They couldn’t really even tell his nationality, only that he had spent many years out in the wild and looked it. “Basque,” said Dave confidently to Stu later, “I’m sure that was the accent.” The old man had repeated what they had heard before, that they had great potential. “You must sacrifice to reach your goals, however,” he said, “And you must study with the best.” They were both ready to sacrifice for the cause of enlightenment, they had discussed many times how they would pay anything to keep advancing. And as far as studying with the best, well that was exactly what they had in mind every time they searched out a new venue.

The old man had told them, almost in a whisper, where they could find a Native American Medicine Man, a real, honest to goodness old fashioned Medicine Man, as in the real thing. Native spirituality had been conspicuously missing from the retreats they had attended, but it was something they were both very interested in; wooden flutes, rattles, soft drumming, wood smoke - it seemed to both of them to be the obvious next step.

The old man had told them exactly where they could find this Medicine Man. He had also given them names of people to contact who would outfit them and guide them there. It was on the airplane between Madrid and New York that they decided that they would by pass the connections and go directly to the source. “If we go with the Communications Convocation,” said Stu, “they are bound to send a huge group, which will just mean that we have less time with the Man himself. If we find him on our own, we can have ‘private lessons’ as it were, more personal time.” “Yeah,” said Dave, “We have all the information. I think we are ready to do this on our own.”

Now, they shifted from one expensive boot to the other; they had been led to believe the Medicine Man was a kind of Hermit and they were a little disappointed to find out that he had a wife, or a mother or a secretary or whatever she was.

As she reached them, the old woman held out the candle as if to see them better though it was broad daylight. After holding the light up to each of them in turn she sighed deeply and then blew out the flame. “Hello voyagers,” she greeted them in a low melodious voice, “it is a long walk up Lady Mountain, what do you come seeking?” “Voyagers!” laughed Stu a little too abruptly and too loudly, it echoed through the thin mountain air. “Well, we didn’t swim up here anyway!” He elbowed his friend in the side and chuckled at his own joke. The old woman inclined her head, “Ah,” she said, “but a voyager, is anyone who travels to an unknown land, whether by sea or shore.” Something in her smooth tone and low musical voice unaccountably irritated Stu. “Yes, well” he said a little belligerently, scratching at his neck, “We are both Americans. I wouldn’t exactly call this an unknown land.” The old woman just looked at him. “Is it not?” she replied.

He started to speak again, but his friend stepped past him, held out his hand and spoke in a smooth diplomatic tone, “Hi, don’t mind my friend here, it has, indeed, been a long, hard hike. I’m Dave Burgon and this is Stu Marks and we were sent here by the Lone Pine Communications Convocation to study with the ah, Medicine Man, the ah, Holy Man or Guru who is located here in Elk Meadows.”

The old woman shook his hand, hers small and dry as pine bark; heavy with blue veins and rings. She lifted one white eyebrow, “Lone Pine Communications Convocation? That is a mouthful. A bunch of people talking to each other by the Lone Pine? Interesting. What makes these people talking by the Lone Pine think that there is a “Medicine Man” up here in Elk Meadows I wonder?”

The two men glanced at each other. Lone Pine Communications Convocation had no idea they were here, but there wasn’t any reason they had to let on about that. Dave continued talking, his voice taking on a slight patronizing edge. “The Lone Pine Convocation is part of a large Consortium of Zen retreats,” he quoted the brochures. “They are located all around the globe now and are all staffed with World Renowned Fully Self-Actualized Masters and Guru’s. During the last retreat we attended in Spain, we were told, as some of the top participants, that if we really wanted to study in depth we should seek out the hermit on top of Lady Mountain; and they distinctly said Elk Meadow. We got the exact coordinates from a geological survey map and we are using a top of the line GPS.”

The old woman shuffled toward a tree stump that stood nearby and lowered herself slowly to a sitting position. “Spain,” she muttered almost inaudibly, “that will be Basilio, that interfering Basque goat charmer.” She squinted up at the men. “And what would be your definition of a ‘hermit’ I wonder?”

Again the men looked at each other, again there were eyebrows raised and shoulders sightly shrugged. Implicitly they decided to humor her for the moment. “Well,” continued, Dave, still using his best ‘presentation voice’, “this hermit would be an old man, a Native American, full blooded . . . one would be able to see immediately that he had a great presence about him and that he was very spiritually evolved.”

The old woman blinked and her mouth twitched, but she didn’t smile. “One would be able to tell this just from looking?” she asked, “you do know that a hermit is merely one who lives in solitude?”

“Excuse me,” Stu blurted out angrily, “we have hiked all day to get here and we don’t really want to stand around in the side yard having a vocabulary lesson from somebodies secretary, or whatever it is that you are.”

Again Dave put a restraining hand on Stu’s shoulder. “No offense Mam,” he added hastily, “but we do have an agenda and it is getting late. We need to connect with the Hermit as soon as possible to discuss cost factors, housing and food and all the administrative things that have to be taken care of before we can get down to mapping out a course of study.”

Now she did smile, the ghost of a smile, the smile of a ghost; it barely lifted her withered lips, but it lit her eyes. “Ah! So you have come to study. And what is it you wish to learn?”

The men glanced at each other again and then Dave answered. This was something they had thought about, something they had talked about, delved into, discussed at length. “Well,” he said, “we really want to go in all different directions. I mean in every regard and in every dimension. We’re really open, you know? To all kinds of paths and disciplines and approaches. Whatever this Hermit does; Native, New Age, Shamanism, we’re real unrestricted in our outlook. Of course we have done a lot of preliminaries, laid a lot of ground work, so we are really ready for the real in-depth-stuff, which is why we came here looking for this Medicine Man.”

She nodded, “I see. You wish to learn as much as possible, this is admirable. And what is it you wish to learn as much as possible about?”

Dave looked genuinely puzzled, “what do you mean what do we want to learn about?”

She shrugged. “Just that. You say you are open to knowledge and you are very anxious to learn a great deal about something I just wonder what?”

The two men looked at each other again, this time with exasperated looks of disbelief. Dave’s voice had lost some of it’s practiced charm and had an edge to it when he answered, “We want to learn about ourselves of course. What else are you studying when you are learning to be self actualized?”

The old woman’s smile only widened and she looked up at the tops of the pine trees as if she was sharing a joke with someone perched up there. “So. You have walked all day looking for a hermit because you have an agenda to learn as much as possible about yourselves?”

Both men had gone rather red in the face, both began to sputter, but neither managed to get out a coherent word.

“Gentleman,” the old woman continued, all signs of humor suddenly gone, “what would you say if I told you that your Medicine Man, your Actualized Hermit with his great look of spiritual evolution was an old woman with rheumatism in baggy pants with a bad haircut?” She ran her hand backward through her hair making it stand up more wildly than before.

Stu’s voice was angry and had become haughty. “I don’t even find that remotely humorous.”

“No? Nor within the realm of possibility?”

“Not in the least.” The voice was now cold and dismissive.

“Really?” She asked with some interest, “Because I am a woman?”

“Of course not,” he snapped, “We are much more ev. . . progressive than that! We’ve studied with several woman Shamans. There was a beautiful Polynesian Woman at the Maui retreat who positively glowed with presence and spirit, but you, you’re . . .you’re . . .”

She smiled again and struggled to her feet, and though she was bent, she suddenly seemed to loom over them. “Indeed I am, indeed I am.” She laughed shortly. “And I think it is time that you gentleman were leaving. You’ve got a fairly stiff hike ahead of you in order to get yourselves off of Lady Mountain before dark. I would suggest you do that, I would not suggest setting up your fancy camping equipment on this mountain, I really wouldn’t.”

Neither man said a word, it was as if they had been struck dumb. They stared at the old bent woman and suddenly they seemed to see lightening around her head, it looked for all the world like . . . no it couldn’t possibly have been . . . Dave and Stu threw their thousand dollar packs against their backs; nearly ran out of Elk Meadow and practically tumbled over Castle ridge.

“There you go, Briette” she said to herself, reaching back to give herself her child’s name, the one that still echoed in the flowers of the meadows, “There you go, just about as much tact as a Badger.” She picked her candle up from the stump and began shuffling toward the deep forest. “And I never got a chance to tell them exactly where they could find that rotten Basilio. A couple of months snowed in at a sheep camp and they’d be self actualized.” She snorted out loud. “I should have sicced them on Dionysio, a lovely “retreat in Greece” . . . and a run-in with a few maenads is precisely what those two fellows need. She laughed softly to herself, but sobered to silence as she came into the depths of the tallest oldest trees. There was a soft, perpetual shade here, even in the heat of the day; a hushed green light, the deep calm smell of pine and the shush of rushing water. Here was the heart of the wood, the essence of the mountain. Coming to the tallest of the mighty trees she placed her empty palm against the trunk and leaned her forehead against the rough bark. “Grandmother’s,” she whispered, “I come to you empty handed again.” She shook her head, “I was so sure I felt something this time. I am growing old, Grandmother’s, too old. I fail you.” Slowly, using the tree as a prop, she lowered herself to her knees and knelt on the damp earth amidst the trees roots. She felt the spirits come into the space around her; felt the echo of their traditions fill the rushing river, swallow the singing wind and slough sighing through the great trees. Slowly she began to sing:

I came to you a child of love
Rocked on a cradle board of Spring
In the meadow, a child of sun
I taught the summer how to sing

Briette I was, twelve years of sun
I carried the joy that was ours
Then blood called to roses, Casanna
They said, Come in from the flowers

I became a counselor, the Beaver
Learned to patch damns and relations
Ninanne, the heavens called me next
Make the greatest of life’s creations

Many years I walked as mother
As midwife, healer, bear
Then the blood dried on the roses
And I knew it was time to prepare

Astra, they called from the circle
And my daughter’s brought my shawl
But not for me the quiet crone
For soon I heard the call

My heart obeyed the cry of wind
To the top of the mountain tall
Into the old and sacred woods
I followed the Grandmother’s call

Here in the silent green shadows
The substance of myth I found
Bright figures all around me
And one dying on the ground

The totem of my people
Lay bent and almost dead
But as I knelt beside her
She raised her antlered head

“You’ve come my child! You’ve come at last!”
In the end comes sweet release!
The forest saved, the burden passed
I can rest my head in peace!”

How strange to be called child
When one has worn Crone’s shawl
But in this strange bright gathering
I, indeed, felt dim and small

I took her head upon my lap
And she touched me between the brows
And suddenly I felt the weight
Of impending heavy vows

To guard the essence of the land
From waters to pine topped breeze
To defend the animal’s footprints
The ancient spirits of the trees

I felt the thunder of mountain
Rise up wild within my breast
I felt the echos of tradition
Close around me pressed

They said I need not lift this weight
Unless it was my choice
For every daughter of the Elk
Retains the right of voice

“We will teach you much of the other world
What you call myth and mystery
We will teach you all of the patternings
That have formed the bones of history

But ‘tis a heavy burden on your head
To vow to guard your land and race
And you cannot set that burden down
Until one comes to take your place”

But I whispered “yes” in the cool green hush
For the need beat in the land
The spirits round me circled
And I heard their last command

If you take this calling, wear these horns
These are our final claims
You will walk this earth as Elk Woman
We must take your other names

I caught my breath in horror
But I nodded just the same
And from the back of my bent neck
Flew each luminous, cherished name

Briette, joy of the flowers
Casanna, the maiden sweet
Ninanne, with a babe at her breast
Astra’s daughter’s at her feet

When I stood my head was heavy
With the thoughts of my self slaughter
But I rose up clear, and clean, alone
No one but the mountain’s daughter

And the wind blew through my antlers
And I felt each beast and tree
A bird flew through my throat
“Oh!” I gasped, “I see!”

Then the glade was filled with laughter
From a large and merry clan
I felt soft hands upon my shoulders
And my learning then began

The Elk Woman stirred on the ground, it was damp and she was suddenly aware of sharp pains in her knees. She sighed. “But Grandmother’s, as you know, that was long, long ago. My blood clan has long since vanished from this earthly sphere, but you have told me if I hold the mountain, if I remain, that one will come whose heart is of the Elk. And so I wait. But each time I feel feet upon my mountain, it is some imposter, some self seeker come to exploit the mountain or myself, to take, to take always to take.” She snorted, “Condo’s. Oil. Cattle, used to always be cattle, now it’s condos and Zen, good lord what did Buddha have on his mind? Well, never mind, it isn’t his fault, anymore than the other crazies are the fault of that poor boy from Nazareth.” She shook her head, “But, Grandmother’s, I’m going to end up like the old Elk Woman, dying on the ground, I’m afraid. Only, I’m going to do it alone.” She tried to stop it, but her voice shook and she wrapped her arms around herself for she felt cold and shivered. Her old eyes had been dry for so long, that no tear leaked out to run down her furrowed face, but she hugged her self tightly and shook silently for a moment.

When she opened her eyes, in the dim green hush of the woods they were caught immediately by the flicker of her own candle. She stared at it. She knew she had not lit it. She had firmly blown it out after searching for the rainbows around those two dreary men and, of course, finding absolutely nothing. But it was burning now. She got shakily to her feet, one hand against the rough bark of the old tree behind her. She held the candle out in front of her as if it might bite.

“Marvelous,” she snorted, “Now, I’m going senile on top of everything else. Lighting candles and I don’t even know it. Next thing I’ll be burning the forest down. Great guardian. Incredible.”

“Whew!” said a voice behind her, making her spin around almost dropping the candle. “That was some climb! I knew I should have really gone around by way of the meadow, but the ridge didn’t look that steep, but it was! THAT steep!” She was standing there in the green light looking a little bit like a sylvan elf, a little bit like an L.L. Bean Summer Catalog cover, wearing hiking shorts and boots, a sports bra, with a shirt tied around her waist. She looked at the Elk Woman’s candle then around at the big old trees, “It is getting dark up here already, WHOA! Oh my god, look at this!” She spun slowly in a circle her face turned up to the tree tops, then repeated the movement with her arms held out to her sides. She smiled at the Elk Woman, a smile that wrinkled her nose and removed all vestiges of the L.L. Bean Catalog cover. “Sorry!” she said, “‘She Dances with Trees,’ this is an incredible place! I am sorry to just bust in on you like this.” She held out a small compact brown hand which the Elk Woman took in her pine dry one. She didn’t shake, but squeezed very slightly and smiled again.

“I hope I didn’t startle you, I did appear from out of no where, I have a tendency to do that. Do you live here?” The Elk Woman could not remember having been at a loss for words for a very, very long time. “I . . . I . . yes. I . . have a cabin, in the clearing.” She gestured feebly over her shoulder and then stood back, surveying the elf girl from a further distance, trying to get her wits about her. The girl only continued to smile, her head slightly to one side. “Well,” said the Elk Woman finally, much more stiffly than she had intended, “what do you on Lady Mountain? What do you come seeking?”

“Seeking?” said the girl shrugging her shoulders slightly, “solitude? Maybe? I don’t know.” The Elk Woman narrowed her eyes. “You have come here to be alone?” “Not really, or I guess, not specifically,” the girl shrugged again, “I’m traveling, getting to know the country, and I’m writing as I go.” Something in the girls words made the Elk Woman’s breath catch. “Getting to know the country?” she breathed, “What do you mean by that? How does one get to know the country?” The elf girl laughed out loud, her head thrown sightly back, “well, the way you get to know anything or anybody, by being with it, living with it, finding out what it likes, what it doesn’t, what makes it work.”

“Indeed.” said the Elk Woman quietly. “And what is it you write about?” “Ecology,” said the girl, “though that is a word that gets over used and I’m not sure anybody knows what it means any more.” The Elk Woman grew very still. This was not Condo’s, Cows or Consciousness. “And just what does the word mean, in your estimation?” She asked quietly. The girl smiled again, hoisted a rather large pack off of her back on to the ground and unceremoniously sat on it. “Well, the word of course just means the branch of biology concerned with the relations between organisms and their environment. The organisms I happen to be interested in are humans, because they have impacted every other organism on the planet. Of course, it’s a matter of saving the earth,” she explained, leaning forward, talking with her hands, “but it isn’t enough at this point just to talk about saving the earth, we have to learn to live with the earth as well, not ON the earth, and not against it as we have been trying to do for god knows how long; nor against each other for that matter; but somehow we have to learn to live with the earth. We have to learn FROM the earth again; We have to learn how to let ourselves listen to the earth and then to learn from ourselves as well. Does that make any sense?”

The Elk Woman’s hands had begun to shake and she felt wax spattering on to her wrist, but she did nothing. She hardly dared to look, she was so afraid of what she might not see. “It makes a great deal of sense. A great deal indeed.” The Elk Woman took a long deep breath. “You have had a hard climb if you came up over the ridge, perhaps you would like to come back to my cabin and have a bite to eat with me?” she asked, keeping her voice as even as she could. The girl smiled again and lifted her pack to one shoulder, “I’d love that, thank you, you are very kind. That is a fascinating candle you have,” she said pointing “it hasn’t burned down a smidgen since I got here and it casts the most incredible shadows. Do you know when I came up over the ridge, I could have sworn that you had antlers on your head?” The Elk Woman smiled and held the candle closer so the girl could see it better. In the cool twilight, the sacred grove was suddenly filled with shooting, shimmering, dancing rainbows. She gasped and spun around again, but the Elk Woman had snuffed the candle quickly out and the rainbows were suddenly gone; it was unexpectedly quite dark under the big old trees so the elf girl did not see the first tear of several hundred years run down the paper thin cheeks of the Elk Woman.

©Edwina Peterson Cross
~ For Sarah ~

2005-07-30T07:18:00.000-07:00

Mystery Searching for Mystery

2005-07-30T07:13:00.000-07:00

Mystery on the white wind
Mystery in the clouds
Mystery wrapped in faded fog
Tattered drifting shrouds
Mystery in dark water
Mystery in the snow
Mystery’s silent daughter
Knows nothing left to know

A search for mystery, meaning
Leaving dark unturned
Never the back road to knowledge
Tripping on things unlearned
So sure of what must be searched for
So sure of the clear perfect way
The rules are carved in the ice here
Nothing to lead you astray
Speak just the words you are bidden
And find what they tell you to find
To search there must be something hidden
The back of an eye that’s turned blind

A Different Labyrinth

2005-07-30T04:01:00.000-07:00

DISTORTION

The charging, churning water of the cataract
caresses alike smooth pebbles, soon sand to be.
There is no distinction amongst fractured souls who's
sorrows are swept away, down to a forgiving sea.

The gentle, languid inlet pool by hidden glade
floats bright blossoms and graceful swan for beauty's sake.
This tranquil dark, deep spread may hide much teaming life,
and decay as well, in Divine cycle to partake.

The sparkling, splendid offered sip from a stranger
is fine wine changed back to the water of life.
No gift in any land more profound than open hand
dipped in cooling, escape from fetid heat and strife.

The morning, misted dew drop draws me ever near
to peer within, but view only curved distortion
of a self I would sure deny - thrice perhaps,
for I sense God's presence there, a foolish notion.

In master Moses' song, thoughts quietly distilled
as dew on the petals to only fade away.
Look for the drop of sweat upon the peasant's brow,
or the joyful birth tears that never seem to stay.

On the twisting, tortured path from will bound plain
to dizzying mountain pass in clouds of mystery,
each form of water will be embraced repeatedly,
for we are beyond dust, of water and spirit free.

Labyrinth - Chatres Cathedral

2005-07-29T22:35:00.000-07:00

Cloaks and Veils - Sufi Symbolism

2005-07-29T04:14:00.000-07:00

"Your Essence is constantly
both hidden and apparent through me,
For I am your veil, and I am your cloak as well."

-- Maghrebi

(I found this so lovely I had to share it in the Mysteries. I really like

the cloak and veil motif. Just right for Mysteries.)

Orpheus Again

2005-07-28T06:27:00.000-07:00

orpheus:

Where is he?
Did the maenads
tear him apart again
with their glazed eyes?

No,
that is a cycle play -
a drama,
that goes under
and up again.

Evergreen,
he is everywhere
and grows
with or
without our
attentions.

Yet better
with them.
{Open your eyes
and see.}

copyright Monika Roleff 2005.

For Grandmothers

2005-07-28T06:03:00.000-07:00

FORESHADOW

I am caught, as always,
by words and thoughts more ancient
that what we are taught …
taught to forget,
got,
gone.
No one listens to grandmothers anymore,
and young men never hear
what women everknow;
and she said …

"Music and singing
do not produce in the heart
that which is not in it."

And this then is all of it --

People have no faith because
their mothers did not sing to them
before they were born.

Men have no courage
because myths are filtered
by religious leaders
changing money in the temple.

Women have no hope
because their children
will only be slaughtered
on the altar of hubris and greed.

But ...
the poets can reach back --
back and in and through,
and "through and through
the vorpel blade went snicker-snak"

the poet can place the seed of love
within the hearts of shallow men,
but not here --
here where we are of the choir
of grandmothers everbeen.

I must go to the market place
and sing a song of joy.
I must dance on the refuge heap
that the homeless can still dream.
I must walk barefoot
in the park and laugh at --
everything.
I must touch the tears
of every grandmother I meet,
and lead children to them,
and gift them mirth
and knowledge of the song.

If I am not a poem
rather than a poet,
then why did my mother
sing to me
before I was ever born?

If I,
as I am,
I am today --
do not place a note
within a yearning heart --
a stranger --
that they may hear
and love …

then why am I
a poet?

faucon

The Isle of Ancestors by Heather Blakey

2005-07-28T04:57:00.000-07:00

I had let the others go to the Isle ahead of me, had deliberately lingered in the Tavern of the Inn, sharing a night cap with the old woman who ran the place. We talked about the group I had bought to Duwamish and she marvelled at their implicit trust. "You do have a gift child" she said as she poured me a smooth musket. I laughed out loud and cynically told her that I most certainly had a gift for waxing lyrical. She looked at me with knowing eyes and said that she thought I needed to take the trip to the island instead of sitting here by myself trying to avoid truth.

So I got up from the bar stool and as I rose I heard footsteps behind me. As I turned I gasped. There, right before me was Dad, looking just as he had looked when he last stood at my door with his basket of homegrown vegetables in his hand. I dropped my glass as I stepped forward to greet him and glass splintered across the floor. I hugged him and held him tightly for ages.

"Come Heather! I have come to take you to the ferry woman. My grandmother will take you across to the island."

"But Dad! Can't we spend some time together?" I pleaded.

"Shush little one" he smiled, putting his finger to his lips. "There will be time for that later, after you have been to the island."

With that my father led me to the quay to journey to the Isle of Ancestors, led me to the boat my great grandmother steered. It came as no surprise that her boat was shaped as, was in fact a black mare.

Dad gave me a leg up and my great grandmother and I rode bareback without speaking to the Isle of the Ancestors. I knew that she would be by my side while I completed the journey, that she would witness a rebirth. She smiled, nodded in agreement with my thoughts and led me through the moonlit apple orchard towards the stone doors, carved curiously in the shape of a vagina.

The doorway was open and we walked together down the labyrinthine passage way. Memories of Chartres Cathedral swarmed back. Memories of walking the labyrinth gripped me.

On we walked, my great grandmother and I, her warm hand guiding me until finally we entered a space that looked like it had been woven by a raven. A raven's nest? But then, as we circled and approached the hooded figures who were waiting for me, I realised that this was the womb I had lain in all those years ago. For a moment I thought I could hear my mother's voice, feel her movements, hear her feel the quickening as I moved. But then there was silence and I looked at the women who had gathered to greet them and gave them the raven feather I had had tucked in a pocket for protection.

As I sat tears welled and I began to sob in the arms of my great grandmother. The tears I shed were tears that I have resisted shedding. They came in torrents, flooding, drenching us.

"Why?" I blurted almost incoherently. "Why have I had to carry such a burden of grief and loss? Why can't I know unbridled joy?"

The women rose as a collective, revealing themselves to be my grandmothers, dating back centuries. I had never known one of them in my physical life yet I knew them to be my grandmothers. These women embraced me, as a collective and held me until I stopped crying. No one spoke. I felt their empathy, their knowing and I knew that they knew my agony of isolation.

It is a blur now but at some point I realised that they had wrapped me in a cloak of their collective knowing, that they were the cloak, that they had transformed themselves and were a part of me. My great grandmother, the Ferry Woman, sat me on a throne, wearing my specially woven coat.

Bells sounded, announcing that it was time to lead and my grandmother led me out of the throne womb, back up the labyrinthine passage, through the stone vulva and we rode on her mare back to Duwamish.

I held her warm hand briefly, pulled the collar of my new coat up to block the dawn chill and, singing with joy danced towards the inn. The Innkeeper told me the others had been down at the bathhouse and hadn't noticed my absence. So I slipped quietly to my room and slept, still wearing my coat, a coat that will always distinguish me and name me wounded healer.

The agony of isolation is over. Praise be!

Reading of ancestors and a fireboat

2005-07-27T19:47:00.000-07:00

The great chief spoke
in his language, Duamish,
of peace
and of the foolishness of young men
who spoke of war

I now find myself
in a far place
walking with you, peopling a place named for the ship
that carried his language to the furthest shore
His message is heard on boardwalks in your gentle village

Orpheus - Greek God of Music & Poetry

2005-07-27T06:15:00.000-07:00

OrpheusOrpheusOrpheus

ORPHEUSORPHEUSOrpheus

Orpheus charmed all living

things with his lyre,

moving the stones...

OrpheusORPHEUSorpheus

ORPHEUSORPHEUS

Gusari Mystique

2005-07-27T04:23:00.000-07:00

I stumbled across the Gusari
in a search for a suitable SCA persona
and wrote the following piece for
publication in a Slavic Interest magazine.

I had not yet learned (remembered) the influence
of the Alani, the Mongolian invasion,
and ultimately Mongolian Shamanism.

I wrote manystories and poems about my
fictional 13th century persona as a way
of expressing thoughts about the
conflict of spitituality extend in Eastern Europe
at that time. At first this was fueled by
knowledge that people like the Gusari must have
existed. Later I have learned how accurate
my depictions have been -- supported in part by
e-mails from strangers in Slavic areas
with info about the Gusari myths. Most enlightenting
was an on-line discussion with a Romanian
man of about 104 years who had never seen
a computer before, but wished to share
knowledge that he had kept hidden all of his life
out of fear.

........

Gusari Mystique
Gusari (Goo sa ree like nursery)

This is a term that can be roughly applied to traveling performers in Eastern Europe, Slavic States and Western Russia during the 8th to 17th centuries, and equates to the Celtic "bard" in function. However, there are many important distinctions that could affect the use of this title or label, especially for SCA Bardic competition.
1. It is a slang term of mixed origin that encompassed performance functions from many cultures. Specific references can be found for:
· Anyone playing the Gusli, a Russian lute type instrument.
· A traveler from afar, possibly originating in Qusar by the Caspian Sea and part of the "Silk Route."
· A political satirist of the type associated with inciting the people of Kiev to free the Prince of Polotsk (circa 1225).
· A person who combined story telling with legerdemain in performance as distinct from traveling actors, jugglers, fire-eaters, etc. They did not always sing, but often combined story, recitation, and song according to the needs of the audience or setting. In this way they are linked with the European treverè tradition.
· Synonymous in the Novgorad area with the "skomorokhi."
2. During the formation in Europe of the unified Germanic Duchies and the Growing power of the Lombards in the 12th and 13th centuries, the Gusari were chastised and outlawed because of their outspoken political parodies. Those who could keep their mouths in check became, Jongleurs (Juggler), Magika, Travere', and Skomorokhi. The latter shift didn't work out, however, because of later persecution by the churches in the 15th-17th centuries in Russia. Apparently, speaking the truth out load was not appreciated.
3. The Gusari is linked to the concept of the "baffoon" which inaccurately translates as "clown" in English culture. Thus a person dressed in harlequin type garb in 12th century Moravia would have acted and performed differently than one in English or French court.
4. Actors in the Gusari tradition performed short skits rather than traditional plays. They often substituted the names of local officials and powerful merchants into the skits for parody, humor, and political purposes.
5. The Gusari are based on a merchant tradition more than a religious one, though the later sift to skomorakhi took on unfortunate religious relationships. They traveled from Turkic (silk route) lands north to Saxony and West to France. Southern influence is lost in Islamic expansion. The collapse of the Khazan Empire seems to have severed any link to Caspian area. However:
· 1999 background for the building of a gas line from the Caspian to Romania refers to following the "Trade Route" established by the Gusari.
· In 1998, two students accused of smuggling in Russian Georgia claimed protection under the "Gusari Law." While no details were given it apparently had to do with ancient protection for the merchant class. The petition was denied because the accused could not prove direct personal ascendancy from the 12th century merchants.
6. Modern usage appears to be linked exclusively with the Gusli instrument, which is now far removed from the original 5 string 'block 'n strum' instrument.

Anyone adopting an Eastern European or near Russian persona can rightly call themselves a Gusari if they tell stories, and use music, magic and other arts to entertain. Presentations are not restricted to lyric forms or Bard traditions. The appropriate term is "bylini", which translates as "what happened." Other mixed story/songs are called "starina", which means "what is old." The best term for this unique persona group is "umeltz", which means "a versatile person." Attempts to use satire and political parody in a medieval tradition will probably not be successful. Logical argument was also by parable and "Plato's Dialectic" rather then syllogistic.

Note: Gusari is also a name for Japanese chain mail armor, which greatly complicates Internet research. Many of my links were developed through communication with the Slavic Interest League in Romania
GUSARI

He walks with bird song and gentle kissing of sun,
That does cast a shadow much larger than the man.
By fond legend he is mystic and Shaman,
For he extends gentle help and peace where he can.

Yet he is a warrior of many practice arts
To shield the weak and defy practiced evil.
In fine story and verse he plays many parts,
In parody and jest -- a quest to fulfill.

Small magic is weaved throughout each haunting tale,
To amuse dancing children and draw crowds still near.
To each joined communal friend he does not fail
To provide solace and hope, and drive away fear.

He is traveler and merchant from far distant land,
Owing allegiance to no Lord, liege or Prince,
He bears hungry news, invention and craft of hand.
From Kazan to North Sea he appears quite by chance.

The strum of the Gusli calls back to forest home
Where all may eat, pray and sing and safely come.

faucon

Discourse with Windhorse

2005-07-26T19:40:00.000-07:00

Mona was forever doleful, I thought,

on viewing her, for that was noble, to be disenchanted,

disappointed, hard at work on something that had no resolution,

the noble work to stress and strain, filling the tolls of hours.

It wasn't until much later I realised she was faintly smiling,

And had an ironic view that served her well, guarding

the gates of freedom as she did.

I noticed also there is not a soul around her to vex her,

yet there was a gravity, about her, that no human could possibly shoulder,

yet this used to be my thought of her, when I looked at her when I was young.

Bleeding hearts, lovers, soldiers, knights, sisters, brothers - you know who you are,

so I don't need to explain your presence, for you just are, and indeed

I don't begrudge your cares and rallies, but note,

in the garden of truth and delight, there is a separateness to the

oneness you all seek, which may lead to your overflowing.

When I looked again at her face, indeed she had been

busy engaged in discourse with Windhorse.....

A Spiral Mystery that isn't

2005-07-26T15:03:00.000-07:00

Ancestors and Apple by Barbara Banta

2005-07-26T14:00:00.000-07:00

The others have been shopping, or celebrating yesterday's triumph, or resting from it, while I've been standing nearly the whole day on the dock overlooking Duwamish Bay just opposite the Inn. From time to time one of my friends waves or calls out for me to join them but I shake my head and turn away. They probably think me unfriendly, I know, but I can't be with people right now.

I got very little sleep last night; my dreams gave me no rest. They weren't nightmares in the ordinary sense, no monsters chasing me, or fear of what lurked under the bed, no endless descent through a pitch black hole. But there was an empty field with a gate leading nowhere, and dark steps plummeting down to an angry sea. There was a shell on the windowsill in my cell at the Abbey that whispered and wept to be set free, and a green woven basket back in the grotto that shook and trembled at the fierce fluttering inside it.

I look up as the water of Duwamish Bay begins to froth and churn. A fleet of boats approaches the dock, flags fluttering in the soft summer night. I strain to find the one that will take me to the Island of Ancestors but they all look much the same in the dark. The traveller next to me chuckles and mutters something about worrying too much then confidently boards a ferry. How did she know? The flag on the one nearest me, appears to show shafts of wheat and baskets of corn, no clue there, perhaps it's a boat meant more for farm produce than for passengers. Then in the dull glow of running lights I read Trefoil and remember my shamrock suite at the grotto. As I come aboard, the ferry pilot nods a greeting then goes about the tricky business of extricating her boat from betwixt and between the other boats and in a few minutes we are plowing through the starry night toward our destination.

Twenty minutes later the faint outline of the island appears and despite the fact that there are no lights to guide her in, the ferry is soon safely tied up and I find myself walking toward the grove of trees the enchantress told us to find. Apples are in season and I pick some (Braeburns--my favorite) and throw all but one in my tote bag. I walk the moonlit path munching on the tangy juice-filled apple, while I try to quiet my rapidly beating heart.

The stones that lead into the mound are easily two stories high and as I pass through, heading toward the faint red glow, I feel the warmth of the torches and hear them sputter and spit in a passing breeze. The well-worn path leads me downward until I finally emerge into a great hall of shadows whose only light comes from a small fire in the center of the room. My ancestor sits by the fire, cloaked and hooded, facing in the opposite direction and with my heart already overflowing with love, I circle around and sit on the bench opposite.
"Hello Bev." My birthday twin-almost-sister from long ago lowers her hood and smiles at me and I forfeit the question about myself to ask, "Do you walk now, Dear Heart?"

"Not too often," she answers, her eyes shining, "mostly I dance!"

How I long to stay and talk with her but there are rules and reasons for this meeting and I've already broken the first. She draws something from her pocket and presents it to me. It's a cylindrical object four inches long in black and gold. She waits patiently, watching in amusement as I try to make sense of the riddle.

I turn the spyglass around in my hand in bewilderment, wishing I could ask why. Finally it comes to me. "Ah, to see in the distance, to study details--to focus on my stories," the words tumble out and she gives me a thumbs up sign. "You always gave the best presents," I admit. "Okay, Bev, your turn."

"Are you doing what you love?"

"Every day," I assure her. I reach into my tote for the apples and place them into her outstretched hands. We both watch as they flatten and lengthen and turn into the prettiest pair of ballet slippers either of us has ever seen.

Dawn is breaking as our fleet of ferries makes its way across Duwamish Bay. Looking back at the island through my spyglass, I can almost see a slender figure in red and gold slippers dancing among the apple trees.

Isle of Ancestors by Gail Kavanagh

2005-07-26T05:29:00.000-07:00

After my strange ride on the carousel, I returned to find my companions gathered on Duwamish Quay.The spell of the carousel had completely driven from my mind that we were to go on another journey tonight.My companions were all getting on their barges and I hurried down the quay in search of mine. A woman called out to me and I stepped down into my barge. I sent a quick thank you to my late father for his insistence on taking me out to sea at the first opportunity. Thanks to him I am quite at home in boats and I settled happily behind the ferry woman as the boat moved away from the quay.

It was a clear night full of stars and the sea was very still. I saw an island looming out of the darkness and felt the ferry jolt as it slid ashore. I climbed out and waded up onto the beach. I found
myself in a grove of apple trees that reminded me of the Abbey – and for a moment I felt a piercing homesickness for my little caravan and my horse Tinker. But faint heart ne'er enjoyed an adventure like this, so I kept to the path until I reached a huge stone doorway. I passed under the torches into a sloping passage and continued down until I found myself in a great hall. What little light there was
came from a dying fire in the centre of the hall. Seated nearby was a hooded figure. Remembering my instructions, I circled halfway round the hall and sat down facing my ancestor – who would it be?

``Greetings, ancestor," I said.

The figure reached up and tossed back the hood. A young man sat there, with a bright, laughing face and thick curly hair. Under the robe he was dressed in a colourful jerkin and leggings. I was
expecting someone wise and sere – this cheeky whelp looked like one of my sons. What question could I ask him? But there was only one question I really wanted to ask.

``What is this place I dream of, where the colours are so much more intense, where I feel so much more alive and happy? Does it really exist?"

He leaned forward and I saw wisdom as well as merriment in his eyes.

``Someday," he said, ``you will come home."

He reached into his jerkin and pulled out a single blade of grass. When I took it in my fingers I felt it pulse with life.

``This comes from that place you dream about," he said. ``Keep it with you always and you will find your way."

It was his turn to ask a question now. His merry eyes danced as he said, ``And after you – does the storytelling go on?'I told him about my children – Lucia, the daughter who writes songs; Kat, the one who tells her poems in pictures, and Chris, the son who creates worlds no one but he has ever seen – and of my grandchildren, who reach out for crayons and paper almost as soon as they can sit up. He listened with joy, this unknown minstrel ancestor of mine. Suddenly I found I was holding a piece of paper, on which was written the words of Lucia's lovely song to her grandmother. I gave it to him, and he sang it softly to himself as he scanned the words.

``It will go on with us," I said, ``as long as there are stories to be told."

Now it was time for me to leave. I followed the circle round the fire and went back to the shore where the ferry woman waited.As we sped across the glassy water, I clutched my blade of grass and felt overwhelming joy.

Isle of Ancestors by Alex Chua

2005-07-26T05:23:00.000-07:00

I looked up from where I stand on Duwamish quay. The night is clear;the waxing moon rises over my shoulder, and I hear the gentle rolling of water past the barges that are lined up in the Duwamish. My eyes fell on a worn looking barge with purple paint peeling off everywhere. I looked up and met the eyes of a ferry woman with silver hair. She smiled and signaled me on board. My feet moved forward and I found myself on board the barge as if in a trance. I was soon in the middle of the moonlit sea and under the bright moonlight, I could see the outline of what Alice, the ferry woman told me was the Island ofAncestors.

Alice stops by the shore and I saw a grove of apple trees. These were the biggest apples I ever saw and their fragrance filled the air. I could see a moonlit path between the trees and I follow it to a mound.In the centre of the side is a doorway made of two immense upright stones topped by a massive lintel. There are two torches burning at the door providing light for the entrance into a passageway. At the far end of the passage is a faint red glow.

I was suddenly gripped by fear and I froze in my tracks while cold sweat just poured from my paralysed body. I could feel a surge of energy from beyond the end of the corridor. I heard a sharp sound that
pierced the still night air and the sound grew into a series of shrieks. My mind will filled with images of all the evil that I know in my imagination and I saw something flying towards me from the red
glow. I wanted to run but I could only stare ahead. I could not even close my eyes... The flying object grew and split into four as itneared me... and I start to realise to my embaressment that they were the 2 pairs of love birds from the bay! The birds flew past me into the night and I was immediately able to move.

I proceed down the corridor and emerge into a shadowy great hall. In the centre is a hearth with the glowing embers of a fire. Seated before the fire facing away from me is a hooded figure. Across the
hearth from this figure is a bench. I circle halfway around the hearth clockwise and sit facing the figure. My grandmother looked up from the hood and smiled. She has passed over to the other side fmore than 2 decades ago, but her smile was so full of love and compassion that I felt absolutely no fear. I just looked into her eyes and savored the connection and intimacy of the moment.

"You looked confused" Ma Ma said as a matter of fact. "What is it that you want to know?"

"Ma Ma, I have rediscovered my true nature and purpose in life, but I am so scared of the uncertainty that awaits me... ..." The words just flowed past my lips in our dialect, as if they had waited all a long time for this very moment.

The gentle smile never left Ma Ma face as she reached into her pocket and took out a handkerchief. She handed it to me and I recognised it to be my own... the smell was so familiar and I was suddendly back to when I was 5 years old again. I was washed by a deep sense of peace and joy.

"You only need to stop thinking and start living" she wispered, "Let your inner child come out and play, you have imprisoned him for long enough, he is a part of you, a very important part".

"Make a commitment to me now. Promise to accept and love this inner child. Can you do it?" Ma Ma said in a serious yet calm tone.

I hesitate foe a split second before replying, "Ye... Yes".

"How?" She asked. "Tear a page from your journal, write down your commitment, sign it and give it to me... ..."

I begin to write as emotions bubbled out of my spirits and flowed down my cheeks as tears of life. i felt alive again as I penned these words.

"I promise to accept and love my inner child and be the best that I can be. I wil not imprison myself anymore and I resolve to startliving fully every moment of my life starting from now!" She waved her hand and I complied and finished my circuit around the hearth, go behind her, and pass out of the mound and back along the path. I was still crying uncontrollably and it feels so fresh and
good.

I wiped my tears and re-board the barge to Duwamish as the first light of dawn breaks over the eastern horizon. It wasn't long before I was back at the Duwamish Inn feeling more complete and at peace than I
have ever been since I can remember... ...

What the Ancestor Said - by Lisa Phoenix

2005-07-26T05:21:00.000-07:00

You thought
you had failed,
that you were
lost, a
loser

wandering
and desolate,
or merely
stuck
and numb

But always
you did
what was
needed:
striving and
surviving,
engaging love
and longing,
confused,

yet
finding what
you never
lose

always on
your path,
after all
always
coming
home

Ursa Major by Karen Roberts

2005-07-26T05:12:00.000-07:00

I enter the great hall, one torch in my right hand, held high, illuminating my path. I sense that the chamber is round, and proceed carefully clockwise, touching the wall occasionally with my left hand for comfort. It seems to breathe into my hand, a sense of ancientness diffusing across the gradient into my skin, and I feel myself rooting into the earth, even as I step lightly. I am becoming part of this chamber, which I dimly recognize, by scent and sound, a faint pulsing that seems to come from within my own chest. I see a fire, glowing embers with the remnants of small flames licking the air. Seated before the fire is a figure, draped in a magnificent robe of many colors, some snaking through with a metallic gleam, some dull and homespun. The figure is large and powerful, and I see that it faces not only the fire, but a crude bench which sits on the other side of the fire. I cautiously approach, feeling my way around the cavern, and seat myself on the bench after placing my torch in a gnarled tree trunk obviously meant for the purpose. I sit quietly, waiting.

The figure in the robe stands, towering above the fire. Suddenly, the hood is thrown back and I behold a large bear, a female. She stares at me, and I, humbled, bow my head. I recall this bear from a dream I once had. She had stood beside my bed, through a long and dark night of fear. Some time passed. Finally, I speak.

"Hello, Mother," I said. "I know you." She smiles, exposing strong teeth. Her eyes shine. In that instant I feel my thick pelt against the bench, hear the slight whisper of moth wing around the torch, smell the ferry woman still at her post on the island's shore. I feel stirring within me bear essence from time immemorial,feel my heavy paws running across mountain ridges, forested hills, and boggy riverbanks. I breathe, my breath harsh, fetid,powerful.

"Help me, Mother. What is my path?"

She lumbers around the fire, coming quite close to me, and I feel the immensity of her body. I feel the longing to reunite with her, to suckle her rich milk, bury myself in her thick fur. I smell
her essence, smell the same essence on my own pelt, my own skin. I am of her. She places a powerful paw on my head. The weight is massive, bowing my neck. I feel the subtle prick of her claws on my
tender nape. The feeling is nearly indescribable, a rush of bear knowledge, bear instinct, bear lineage, all passing through me, flowing like lifeblood through my veins. I see my fur unravel, become fiber and cell and DNA and atom and subatomic particle, see all of my matter swirl into the air and join with the universe, becoming tree, plant, river, stone, star. All paths are one, all lead to the self, all are bear. I gasp with recognition, the simple beauty of it. In a powerful motion, she wrenches one long claw from her great paw, and hands it to me, still dripping with her warm
blood. I take it and hold it in my hands as though it were a living creature, tenderly cupping it.

I sense her curiosity, her need. Once again she touches my head, this time gently laying her bloody paw on my forehead. Bears fill my vision, all female, all powerful; all dear, known, and beloved. My sisters. They look to me, eyes searching, questioning.

"I will help them come to you, Mother. I will show them the path."

I reach into my pocket and pull from it a smooth stone. Jet black and shiny, it lies in my hand like a glittering eye. It is a stone from my homeplace, one I held throughout many sleepless nights, working it over and over until the oils of my skin had burnished it. It contains all of my hopes, dreams, fears, and intentions. I hold it out to her, my eyes barely meeting hers, my other hand clasping her powerful claw. She looks at my hand, and at my face, with great tenderness, takes the stone, and swallows it.

She moves back to her seat, wraps herself in the robe, and appears to sleep. Pulling the lace from my boot, I wrap her claw and fashion a pendant, tying it round my neck. Anointed with her blood and protected by her gift, I rise and make my way slowly from the cavern, walking fearlessly through the darkness to the shore. My bear senses are keen and I sense millions of tiny presences in the
dark, creatures moving below the earth, fish whispering below the surface of the lake. The ferry woman appears concerned when she sees my bloody face, but my calm,confident gaze stills her speech. I step
aboard the ferry and we start for Duwamish as dawn breaks over the water. The wind is in my face, I smell the earth, the water.

All paths are one. I am Ursa Major.

Isle of Ancestors - by Anita Marie Moscoso

2005-07-26T05:10:00.000-07:00

The Ferry Woman who took me to the Island had tattoos on both her arms, the patterns reminded me of the sun, but I think they were actually dieing worlds; worlds that I felt I should know.

She didn't face me, she didn't speak to me and I was glad for it. There was something ruthless and determined in the way she guided the barge across the Duwamish. She was fighting the tide all the way there and she was winning.

She brought us to shore and motioned for me to leave.

As I stepped from the barge to the Pier I saw she was pointing away into the darkness and I was able to see more tattoos on her arms, I saw trees etched into her skin and on the trees were little red apples that looked like splotches of blood.

I don't remember hearing the sound of the tide or the winds or of my own footsteps on this Island.

There was no air here.

" What is this place? " I asked and before she turned her head to answer I hopped off the barge and away from the pier. I realized I didn't want to see her face or hear her voice.

I felt I'd almost made a serious mistake and ran blindly up the path and away from the black waters behind me.

When I came to the cave with the torches out front, I took one down and carefully stepped into the darkness.

The figure waiting for me was wrapped in its death shroud. That didn't surprise me, that didn't bother me. What scared me was the fact that I knew who was under it and they wouldn't show me their face.

I could see the figure turn its head away from me, as if it didn't want me to look at it.

" Who are you? Show me your face " I said.

The hands lifted the shroud away from its face and it was my Aunt Sharon.

I could hardly recognize her because this was the face of my Aunt who should have who should have been.

The one I never got the chance to know.

It was not the face of a woman who died in hopelessness and despair. This was not the face of a woman who drowned all of her pain and torments in alcohol.

" I don't have much time, I'm afraid of the Ferry Woman, I think she wants to leave me here. "

My Aunt nodded and she smiled. Clever girl, the smile said, that's my girl.

" Did you mean it when you'd said Dreams never come true? " I asked, " Did you really believe that? "

" That wasn't me Anita, you know that. You've known that all along. And I don't believe it. I didn't believe it then either. Every time I saw your face and heard one of your stories I didn't believe it...I couldn't believe it. "

My Aunt motions me over and hands me a Tiger's Eye stone. " It's just for luck you know, to remind you I'm always watching you. That's all it is Anita, a token. The real token I'm giving you, that's inside of you now... in your heart. Remember that. "

" Do you forgive me? " she asks as she hands me the stone, " can you forget what I said, and can you let it go? What I said about dreams and hopes? Can you forgive me for saying that? "

" I miss you every single day Auntie, " I tell her, " and I'd never let one word or moment we had slip away into nothing. They're my memories and I love them all. Okay? "

She's smiling at me as she puts her shroud back over her head and I step forward and with a Mortician's Hands I wrap her again as gently and softly as I can. I adjust it over her shoulders and smooth it around her waist and hips.

That was my gift to her… my goodbye. The thing I couldn't give her before.

The ferry woman is waiting for me on her barge and for my Aunt as I step aboard I look it in the face and say, " take me home and don't screw with me. "

The ferry woman laughs soundlessly and as we sail back towards Duwamish we sail with the tide this time...with it.

My Trip to the Isle of Ancestors - by Leonie Bryant

2005-07-26T05:06:00.000-07:00

I wandered slowly down to the wharf where the ferry would take me on a journey that proved to be a momentous one. I am grateful for the invitation to go, as well as for all those dear friends who are accompanying me in words and spirit.

My trip across the sea was a little tempestuous – I wasn’t sure if I wanted to meet this person, or who it would be! I was reassured. The beautiful moon shone brightly over the waters. I felt nurtured and cared for.

On arriving at the distant shore, I embarked from the barge and wended my way up to the stone entrance. As I passed by these stones, I was aware of the sacredness of the journey I was taking. Slowly I meandered down the path towards the red light, which guided me to the great hall. The hall was filled with a warm glow from the fire burning on the other side of the hall. Slowly, slowly I walked around to sit beside the figure and waited til I was ready to see who it was.

My Father, who had died in 1981, was sitting there just as I had remembered him. I looked into his eyes and asked him why he had done those horrible things to me as a little girl, his beautiful daughter. He said that he was in the grip of the ‘demon drink’.
He looked very sorry and said that he had loved me and had always been proud of who I was. The tears were rolling down my face as he gave me a beautiful rose to remind me of his love.

He looked into my eyes and asked me if I could forgive him. I told him that since I had recently claimed how much I had been damaged by his actions, I did now forgive him. I had always loved him and protected him. He gave me a beautiful big fatherly hug which I had missed all my life. It felt so good.

It was time to leave and make my way back to Duwamish Bay holding my beautiful rose.

The Isle of Ancestors - Lois Daley

2005-07-26T02:03:00.000-07:00

The concert over,I thought I would be able to sleep for at least 10 hours,but it was not to be...A note under my door written in extra large letters said "Up Up and Away with you"" Down to the Quay at once the last ferry is awaiting your prescence"

Gathering up my few possessions ,(makes you realise you don't need half the stuff we have) I did hurry down the slope to the quay only to see 9 ferries well out to sea and only one left tied up ...must be mine I surmised

She was a woman of mature years,standing round shouldered ,her breathing was laboured and I was worried she would not have the energy to row across the bay."Must give up the cigarettes" she said from under her brown hooded cloak".Keeping your accounts in order "she said with a laugh..I gasped "Maureen" I said...
"Is that you" "Sure is she said in her raspy voice".....

She was my mentor,friend,teacher,neighbour ,and someone who helped me keep my Mother in her own home until she died.

Maureen has only been gone for 8 years but it seems much longer. She was there for me from age 15 when she took me under her wing and taught me to use a book-keeping machine in the office she managed.She was there when I married,had my children,divorced.When my Father and Mother both died she was there beside me and through it all suffered ill-health...When she was dying I helped her son care for her ,she loved me to brush her hair,rub her back under the shower,do her nails etc etc ..We had such good times as she lay in her bed looking out from her front window....." "Hello Darling Maus" I said (I always called her this) " See you found yourself a job ,no rest for the wicked "I said.She slipped the anchor and we set off with a lot of huffing and puffing, luckily the breeze was behind us, the journey only took 15 minutes..."I'll take a turn if you like" I said.

"No way this is my chariot,the other ferrywomen would kick me out of the union" she quipped.

I knew without asking I would not see her again,as my face grew sad I could feel tears running down my cheeks as she turned the ferry around to return to the island,I burst into sobbing ,wading out into the water wanting to hold her against me.....but I knew already I could not ,I had to be satisfied with a blown kiss that was meant for me to catch......

I sat on the shore and watched the ferry disappear until it was no longer visible as a low cloud enveloped the island.

The path ahead was clearly defined by the apple trees in blossom ,so following them through the grove I came upon a large barn like building ,I thought perhaps it was a storage shed for the fruit after it had been picked ...but on opening the door it was empty except for a large fireplace at the end blazing brightly.

Benches placed around for one to sit on and get warm were very welcome.. I had not noticed that on the edge of the hearth was a stack of firewood being topped up by a shadowy figure,carrying 6 logs in their arms meant this person was pretty strong......As they turned to face me after re fuelling the fire I gasped unable to speak ,and for me to lose my voice is something of a miracle ,never lost for words am I....

The hood pulled back revealed my Father Albert Edward Daley (Bert for short or as Mum called him Alby) ...One question only can be asked (Said the Enchantress) ..I sat on the bench unable to move or stand up.He stood with his back against the fire ..His hair was grey and very thick as I remembered it ,his strong muscle bound arms developed from the hard work as a boilermaker/welder/rivetter.....His round face and always rosy cheeks were there to remind me of how he looked 4 years before he died...I was glad he looked well and with no sign of pain on his face I relaxed.

"Dad" I said "You taught me to keep my head above water financially ,don't get into debt, don't pay things off on the never ,never "'.

"Be true to where you come from and this will sustain you in the future, never lose sight of that struggle makes you strong and although the lesson might be hard fought by, in the end you will most often be proved right." he said

He looked at me and laughed ,"Still giving you sermons , are you still listening ".he quipped......" Can a leopard change its spots" I said, I was always ready for a return answer ......

" I and you must be off" I have others in need of problem solving especially with their bosses who can be B..........Y.. difficult

"Once a union rep always a union rep was Dad....Dad had given me a most treasured gift. The gift of fair play" I needed no more.

What could I give him in return ? my love which he knew he had, my promise to look after Mum ,this was done ...What else could there be.

It came to me in a flash .....Dad always played the mouth-organ for as long as I could remember and he was pretty good......We had Christmas concerts and he always played for all the kids....

I opened my small back-pack ,out my small flute wrapped in the handkerchief ,walked toward his outstretched hand and placed the flute in the palm .He unwrapped it ,put it to his mouth and played a tune...Where was he when I needed a teacher in a hurry.

He stepped foward to hold my hand ,not clasp me to him. Dad was not like this( Mum yes) but not Dad, athough with his grandchildren he was very different as I remember, he was the loving Grandfather more so than the un-emotional Father I knew.

Then he was gone as if disappearing in a puff of smoke. He hadn't changed, no fuss Dad, but at least the face I saw was free of as I have said Pain........I left the large barn like building knowing that what he had passed onto me was a gift not to be lightly used,it would stand me in good stead for many years to come.......

Meandering down the path between the Apple trees in blossom I saw the ferry tied up ,it was a large one this time enough room for 10 ,I guessed

We all sat in silence, my companions and I, until we reached Dawamish just as the dawn was breaking over the eastern horizon ...Perhaps when one has met an ancestor who had long gone before us we are in a state of awe and perhaps shock and happiness all rolled into one...and this makes us speechless ... Such a lot to take in and wonder at such an experience.

I feel I need to soak in a tub of hot bubbly water as I am aching all over ,every nerve in my body is tingling like pins and needles.I need re-juvinating.....

Journey to the Isle of Ancestors by Megan Warren

2005-07-26T01:59:00.001-07:00

I stand on the quay, the barges lined up with a ferrywoman ready to greet her passenger. I am apprehensive about this journey, the journey itself and who I will meet on the Island of Ancestors, what they will ask of me and what answers I will come away with. I have my thoughts about who it is that I am to meet and what I will ask – I hope I am not disappointed.

The ferrywoman steps forward and beckons me to the barge. She is familiar – she could be my guide. “Yes” she says, “it is I.” The barge is lit by a single lantern and the moonlight. My guide senses my apprehension and encourages me to use my ipod and listen to some music if that will help.

The barge is enveloped in mist, I can no longer see the barges for my fellow travelers nor can I see Duwamish. Out of the mist the island emerges. The ferrywoman brings the barge to a stop at the shore; she then helps me to disembark. I ask her if she will be accompanying me and she replies “No you must go alone, for it is your journey.” She turns and tends to the barge.

I follow the moonlit path that winds its way through the grove of apple trees. Ahead is a mound, its doorway two massive stone uprights and lintel. It is lit by two torches burning brightly. As I approach I notice that it is a passageway. I enter and walk towards the faint red glow.

As I walk the passageway opens up to a large open area, with a hearth at its centre. It was the fire that provided the glow that had lit my path. Seated before the fire is a person in hooded robes – the person I am here to see.

I walked around the hearth and sat on the bench opposite this person. As I sat down, he removed the hood. It was Kirk (my cousin who died when I was 18) he was as I remembered him. I greeted him with tears streaming down my cheeks. He said “I know you have many questions, but I don’t want you to waste the opportunity, so I will tell you that all you ask after are at peace and waiting for you when it is your time to come.”

There were so many questions that I wanted answered, there were many that I know who had questions. He spoke again “It is your journey, you must ask for yourself and not for others.” So I asked “Why, why did this happen to us, our family, why me?” He responded “Everything and everyone has its time and its purpose. It is all predetermined and you will understand in the fullness of time.”

He then gave me a folded paper boat – “A token from me to help you weather those stormy seas.”

“Now it is my turn to ask a question of you, Megan. Why did you not come home?” I thought this may have been the question and have had more than a decade to think about my answer. “I didn’t come home because I was scared. I wanted to remember you the last time I saw you, before I went on holiday. I didn’t want to see you lying in a coffin. I wanted to remember you as you. And I have regretted the decision ever since; even more so since Brendan died. Please forgive me.” “It isn’t necessary, you need to forgive yourself. It was lesson you had to learn.”

I felt in my pocket for a tissue and there in its place was my rose quartz heart pendant. I gave it to Kirk with my love and my thanks. He hugged me and then returned to his bench covering his head again with the hood.

I rose and walked around the hearth and back up the passageway and out onto the path, surrounded by apple trees. I returned to the barge. I was helped aboard by the ferrywoman. She turned the barge and headed back into the mist. Duwamish emerged out of the mist; before I knew it the ferrywoman had secured the boat at the quay and waited to help me disembark once again. I thanked her.

I looked around the quay, some of the other barges had returned, others had yet to return. I walked back to the inn with my little paper boat in hand.

Journey to the Island of Ancestors

2005-07-26T01:59:00.000-07:00

For hundreds of years the Duwamish River has supported the people who have lived on her shores. Idyllic, with an abundance of fish, game, fowl and trees the region was once a vast trading network.

The Travelling Troubadours have been to the Island of Ancestors and I will be posting some of their work here because what is emerging provides threads for us to explore. If you feel inclined to leave the Abbey for an excursion to Duwamish and a trip to the Island please feel welcome

The Central Mystery: The Journey to the Island of Ancestors

In this meditation, you will journey to meet an ancestor. Remember that an ancestor is a person from your past, who is no longer living, who has helped shape the person you are today; an ancestor may be a predecessor from your bloodline, a previous incarnation, a person who has given you a meaningful tradition or philosophical basis, such as an adopted relative, a teacher, a mentor. You will not choose who will appear to you and it may be someone you know or do not know. Now prepare for a journey. (Pause)

You stand on Duwamish quay. The night is clear; the waxing moon rises over your shoulder, and you hear the gentle rolling of water past the barges that are lined up in the Duwamish. Board the barge and you will be carried over the sea to the Island of Ancestors by a Ferry Woman. (Pause)

You see an island emerging before you. The ferry woman stops at the shore and you see a grove of apple trees. There is a moonlit path between the trees and you follow it. Ahead is a mound. In the centre of the side is a doorway made of two immense upright stones topped by a massive lintel. There are two torches burning at the door providing light for the entrance into a passageway. At the far end of the passage is a faint red glow. Proceed through a corridor inclining downward. (Pause)

You emerge into a shadowy great hall. In the centre is a hearth with the glowing embers of a fire. Seated before the fire facing away from you is a hooded figure. Across the hearth from this figure is a bench. You circle halfway around the hearth clockwise and sit facing the figure. This is one of your ancestors. Greet that person. (Pause)

You may now ask your ancestor one question. It may be about his/her contributions to your life or your family, it may be to clarify something about yourself, or about your future. (Pause) When you have finished, your ancestor gives you a token of help and guidance. (Pause)

In a fair exchange, your ancestor now asks you a question. Answer as best you can. (Pause) You find that you have a gift for your ancestor. Look at it and present it to your ancestor with thanks. (Pause)

Finish your circuit around the hearth, go behind the ancestor, and pass out of the mound and back along the path. (Pause)

Boarding the barge, you return to Duwamish as the first light of dawn breaks over the eastern horizon. At your own pace, return to the Duwamish Inn bringing your experiences and token with you.

The Enchantress

English, French & Scot

2005-07-25T23:57:00.000-07:00

From your birth I adored you in

the Glens, as far as my eye could see, white

towered in France,

you and me young in the English grass,

a bond of medieval jewellery exchanged.

Independent Brave, fighting,

high-caused, brilliant, beloved, bound as you were also

to your mother heart and your father's grave

legacy.

I heard you, - as if I were a bird - as you fell,

black curls, your fighting arm in tatters, but I

was bound and gagged with white silk

and flatterers. Mute.

Long, the screech of you echoed through time,

to a little girl's dream,

louder it rolled and echoed -

until it was a cackling witch-lady, black, and

fell into an address of Scott's works.

I realised you had Gone. You were gone, -

my heart, my soul, my medieval jewel, - eclipsed by white.

My spirit mourned - I was betrothed to another,

distaste I was made to hide.

My soul was dragged - a leather satchel

into the muddied pools of the fields of war.

Catapulted back, a shot from a sling, I journeyed

through the black, where time had stood still, and waved

finer hands over the field where your spirit lay slain, inert, cause lost.

I was black as night with charcoal eyes -

an eagle's crest on my brow -

I called, and screeched as you did, against the

stone-hard queen, and won your favour

rightly, and knightly - your soul was freed

from its dark, agonised void.

And what can I say

to you now,

but breathe?

EverSong - 1

2005-07-25T07:29:00.000-07:00

just one view of the 'inspiration'

faucon
............................................

CURRENT of LIGHT

Though the Current of Light that empowers I
stretches beyond thought and stardust mem'ry,
it is balanced on self-known soul's edge,
in a dance of Life …
to fine sung Creation …
by Agreement and Covenant now secured.

NOW -- swing to the left in human embrace.
NOW -- ever claim the right of divine caress.
NEVER stop the undulation of growth,
whose vibrations dare engage angel wings.

By my choice the Beginning IS Creation.
By my bold faith the Word is manifest,
not in prideful dream nor ego's deceit,
but in the simplest humility
of knowing that I am of Love beheld,
and all Paths are of and be the Source.

Of this wonderment, surely eternal,
stand ever I in rapt attendance,
perhaps only to provide just applause
for those who choose to drift the Currents.

Yet I may be called to nurturing
of those who choose to return to the womb,
or by soul's indecision recycle anew
as instrument, conductor or baton
in the Now Creation of EverSong.

Every choice is resounding triumph!
One brought me here to limit time and place.
Another handed me a role to play,
guided by a scripting not yet writ,
'cept by ev'ry spirit's interaction.
For though the Current be energy's Love,
It is also 'current' in the BeNow,
drawn to the crossing of each soul's web,
entwined with all others at ev'ry point.

Write! Create! Sing! Prance! or simply Be.
As you choose so go there I entranced,
and of thee, me and therefore we be Now,
for by choice alone will I find our Home,
to breathe Life into your waiting soul.

Black Satin - The Necessary Void

2005-07-25T00:18:00.000-07:00

In the night there was
a black satin veil rippling
in the wind by the sea,
it played a pipe of
Pan, and the sound
was like a lover's caress,
so soft and low
it made
the stars shudder
and the moon beam.

Into this Music
black Saturn was
bound to drift,
his boat beached,
shaking seaweed
out of his shiny
blue-black hair.

Silky mussel shells
clung to his red military
coat in tatters
from the long voyage
through the narrow,
jagged caves
where light had
trouble reaching its
bright fingers.

The tune was
like "n-o-o-n",
an "Oooh, you are here,
you are on the
sand, come from my
Sister, ooooh, and she
has blackened you
and softened you,
as if your
coat has been
smashed by velvet."

"Ooooh,"
moaned Saturn,
sinking groaning
onto the sand,
as the red of the coat
sank like blood into
the sand, but it was
black and old,
no longer anything
that made a sound.
"Oooooh,"
moaned Saturn,
"It's Noon".

"Woo, woo; ooh, ooh,"
said the pipe, the black
satin veil feathering,
rippling down,
flaring like a
cape, hovering like
a raven, blue-black,
covering Saturn.

Saturn made
no noise, no moan,
no creak, no rifle
crack,
no wise crack.
He was slackened
by something
that had to be -
softened,
quick, quickened.

The Music
borrowed a paintbox
and reached for colours
in the stars,
tumbling like fountains
of spectrum,
pouring Saturn into
satin, and he did
not resist,
for the colours
were his own,
indeed his very flesh.

"Oh," he said,
stirring, "Oh, I see."
copyright Monika Roleff 2005

Wondrous Dragon

2005-07-24T04:32:00.000-07:00

Yin and Yang Symbol

2005-07-23T02:24:00.000-07:00

AC-3 Shadus

2005-07-22T07:27:00.000-07:00

These thoughts relate to persons and events of mostly Turkic origin, but with involvement and acknowledgment of the Alan, Mongols, Chinese, Persian, Scythian and Thracian references. I will pretend that all of these have a common legend source. The earliest reference is about 5000 BCE. The latest in the 11th century when the Marmaluk Sultan decreed, “the white and black need not ride together.” Many scholars feel this reference is to the ‘Yin-Yang’ dichotomy. I know better.

The name of the people/event can be translated as “Night Messengers,” “Night Riders,” “Shadow Hawks,” “Dark Wind,” etc. I used to use ‘NightRiders’, but this has unfortunate connotations of racist American history and ancient Chinese societies. I once invented the name ‘Shadus’ for another purpose – I will use that.

As noted earlier, documentation is virtually impossible as the Shadus were ‘invisible’ within the cultures directly related – nomadic Turkic clans/principalities. These people rapidly adapted to local environments and survival exigencies with attendant ‘aculturalization’. However, these clans had a need for communication and were bonded by a common language and spirituality (not religion). The uniqueness of the structure of the Turkish language allowed/required a continuous return to base concepts and ‘purity’ of stories. Additionally, nomadic people had enough problems warring with new cultures without fighting amongst themselves. What evolved was a system of communication between the “princes” that was protected from any local squabbles or power plays. These messengers were the Shadus, and they form an ideal convergence of need and function that is unique in history (my limited view).

On the surface, the Shadus was a team of two riders. One was the ‘ultimate warrior’ – invincible in battle. The other was of the Güslerindeniçi – seers/wizards/shaman/priest. Thus they represented both physical and spiritual power and, by agreement, untouchable by either military or religious forces. They represented ultimate power and authority – a terrifying thing. This ‘threat’ was rendered impotent by decree and custom that they could not interact with common people – not in speech, food, drink or touch. They were culturally ‘invisible’. Whether they rode only at night is debatable – but they were cloaked in darkness and were never seen nor referenced by any Turkic accounts. However, other cultures like the Alan did speak of them. One story relates that it had been 1500 years since an Alani had stopped a ‘dark-flyer of the Türqusi on their divine horse with one head white the other black’. The implication is that these ‘most fierce warriors in history’ would allow the Shadus to pass.

Now the good stuff. The reason for the Shadus’ power and effectiveness is founded in a puzzle. It is known that they rode two horses, one white and one black. Each was dressed completely in white and black with veiled hoods. Each had crossed silk scarves across their chests in opposing color. It is not clear which person rode which horse! It is legend that it was never known which was the warrior, and which the shaman. Thus how could you challenge them? What man would risk his spirit or his might in making the wrong choice?

In post-medieval times we have come to equate white with good and black with evil. This was not so then. Black often represented honor, valor and strength; while white stood for purity, chastity, etc. – but this distinction was not ‘religious’. Consider that for any problem you can call on (or challenge) ultimate power in either physical or spiritual form – but that if you choose the wrong one, it is death (physical or spiritual). Standing in front of you are two champions – but you have no way of knowing which is which – and they are inseparable. You may choose to ‘not see them’ either. Thus is the myth of the Shadus.

Now, I will play ‘fast and loose’ with possible extensions of this myth (but they were real). Consider:

The ‘Yin-Yang’ depiction and represented dichotomy may derive from the Shadus
The Zarathustran construction of ‘duality’ that is now part of most modern theistic religions is based on the Shadus.

The use of the cross to symbolize sanctuary and protection is derived from the Shadus. Indeed, Turkic clan members voted by crossing their arms before their faces – fists turned inward in negation or defiance; outward open palms for agreement. Thus, the ‘open hand’ as a sigh of friendship (no weapon), and the modern handshake all could relate. The Egyptian representation of ‘ka’ is two open, extended arms (life-force). When the right arm is crossed against the chest it is a sign of physical support (also Roman). When the left arm is crossed over it is a sign of piety, normally with bowed head. To perform both actions together is a sign of fielty – complete commitment. An acknowledgment of the Shadus.

The Gusari were a medieval extension of this myth to the extent they were used as couriers by European princes. They owed allegiance to no man and embraced all religious practices, and were considered exempt from local laws. They were often ex-knights and were hired as trainers of martial arts. To announce their coming they sent forth a medallion of a white falcon on a black background; or a black trizub on a white background.

In medieval Turkey, performing magicians (safic) were not allowed to do anything resembling ‘arcane magic’ (mystical/occult). Only the ‘seeing ones’ could do this, and they could not use ‘tricks’ to enhance their work. The safic performed on patterned black and white rugs – the ‘seeing ones’ (Güslerindeniçi) carry a string of black and white beads.

I am sure you each can provide additional extensions. Some of this may be ‘reverse engineering’, yet …

Mongolian Shamans were depicted as dressed in white on a white horse, while the eversought ‘center tree’ was starkly black.

The black and white tail feathers of raptors are always the most prized.

Medieval knights in vigil wore only black and white, with a red sash to represent the blood of Christ (left to right) – in giving oath their sword was crossed right to left.

I am going to suggest that ALL of our use of black and white symbolism, and that of the cross, originate from a single source that took visible, active form for more than 6000 years in the rides of the Shadus.

Of course, it is all a dream …

faucon

The Evolving Cross

2005-07-21T19:16:00.000-07:00

Expanding on the meaning of the cross -- it is said the shape of the cross was first formed by the two sticks traditionally used as kindling to make a fire. So -- a symbol of purification through fire. The cross came to mean unification, the joining of all poles of the world, the world axis, a resolution of polarities. The joining of opposites. The cross is considered a protective sword used in order to cut through illusion and see personal truth. It is a symbol of the seeker. A wooden cross was seen as "The Tree of Life" pointing to all that is, a fertile symbol of nature's grace. Placed in fertile earth, the wooden cross (seemingly dead twigs from a tree), would sprout leaves, a symbol the regenerative quality of nature. It became a symbol of resurrection. It is said there are "living fences" made entirely out of verdant twigs in the South Pacific. What appears to be dead suddenly springs to life under the right conditions, in the right season. There are over three hundred different types of crosses, so in each imagination may live a different one for contemplation. There is not just one cross but many, and not all of them are the same. So it becomes apparent humanity is not just restricted to one meaning of the cross, which has remained a living symbol in many ways since the dawn of civilisation.

Resource: Brasch, R. - "How Did It Begin?" Angus & Robertson.
copyright Monika Roleff2005

All or One

2005-07-21T06:25:00.000-07:00

Each one

is like

a precious

jewel,

continually

fashioned by

a higher hand(s),

hewn,

turned,

sculpted,

etched,

watered,

tumbled,

mined -

whatever the particular case may be: individually.

There is

a wisdom

in this

that no-one

knows and

cannot spell,

but the

higher hand(s)

to which

the face

is drawn -

seeking,

asking,

pining,

hurting,

illumining,

wondering,

and finally -

seeing -

that all of this pain is about divining,

and that somebody up there does like you,

after all, each and every one of you, All or one.

Old ways now

2005-07-21T03:41:00.000-07:00

a Fitz yet ..

Most certainly 'welcome' and 'well - come',
most simple phrases that scarcely share
a quickening of heart and spirit.
Some primitive cultures call out instead,
"I see you there," unto met strangers.
To nurtured friends as you both shall be - come,
the greeting changes most profoundly to,
"I am seen!" -- ah, for innocence again.

................................

For a high school honor's English class,
I gave an assignment that for the next
24 hours each would say, at every opportunity,
"I thank you" instead of a tossed off
"thanks," or mumbled wave.
Repeat carefully if not understood,
placing the stress on a different word the second time around.

I changed 28 lives that day ...
the next was one of the finest
classroom discussion I ever observed,
and for the next year,
students met in the hallways
would mouth the silent phrase.

faucon

AC-2 Perspective

2005-07-20T07:19:00.000-07:00

I have found through failed experience
that often the truth is more acceptable
if presented in a story. Yet, if I were to say,
"I had a dream or vision and wrote it down,"
it might be rejected out of hand. What seems to work
is to place the story in a different perspective
or setting, so that it seems a bit familiar and
the 'exceptions' stand out for consideration.
I call this process "A Message Gentle", which is
also the title of a series of 24 books I am
eeking out.

One successful 'setting shift' has been medieval settings.
Perhaps this is because everyone feels some kinship
with Authurian Legend or 'deeds of daring do'.

This story theme is many thousands of years old --
a hint of Lemuria perhaps. These are my words alone
-- they are fiction ...
yet, one could ask why I am drawn to write them -- alone upon the earth?

Enjoy

faucon
..........................................................................

GIVEN

I could say that he came, but he was just there. Or is it here? Space seems to lose some relation when he is near. It is not a matter of where -- it is a matter of now! They become terrifyingly the same, yet peacefully blended. The howling winds that grasped at our cloaks and whirled sleet and sand into our weary eyes seemed not to ruffle his jaunty cap or fur wrapped thighs. His steps down the slope were steady and sure, though many of us had slipped on the icy shards and muddy pools. His staff stood where he set it aside, and within the granted space of his out-stretched arms the storm was stilled. It was not a miracle. It just was. The Given had come!

Our self appointed leader was either too dulled of sense to feel the presence, or blinded by any challenge to his feeble limit of control. He charged with spinning sword and blood spittle on his lips. The awesome slash rang hollow in the sickening gloom. As a man we stepped back in reflex to the whir of the staff dancing in air. Sword, wrist, foot and helm were struck at once. Our tumbling brother landed in the mire with only a further, gentle prod of leathered foot. Silence. Only silence.

Then a chant began --

We stood there all alone, if four can be ignored.
Back to back we formed a square by set measure
of staff's long reach and destructive task implored
to hold to this ground where blood and sweat are treasure.

Many came with sword held high and confidence assured
to be well met by swirling, blurring figure eight
and stab at unguarded foot or helm uncovered
by those who think only sword can beat on metal plate.

Give me a solid staff this day and bind four-square
confidence to cover any attack or intent
to shake me from my liege lord commanded share
of secure life and bonding with this staff's portent.

The Given showed no sign of being upset or disturbed, as though this testing of will and presence was natural and expected. I was not surprised. The mysterious and strange we accept in stride. The simplest of truths are challenged in our bones, or else we stumble , pick ourselves up, and continue on. The Given represented life's truths beyond all else. Heaven may give sway to spiritual connection, to touch upon the gifts of timeless blessing. Here God's messenger was a bond with a covenant of flesh bound truth that few can bear.

I have been told his name is Torin, which means 'eyes', yet I know of none who has seen them. He is older than my father's father double bound, but that may have been another. The dress, the carriage, the strength -- who can say. He is legend -- and pulsing life. I had seen him years before -- and my heart raced in anticipation as before. I had feared we might freeze that night, or be set upon by outlaw bands. Many had prayed for protection or honor or divine intervention -- gone, all gone in the frozen mists of despair. We eight had joined hands and prayed for the strength and resolve to defend our land. He had come.

He guided us through the starless night of sinister threats and churning forces. We were not warmed, but ceased to be cold. We were not blind, but need not see. Our journey was of no direction, but we arrived. The cave was deep and womblike. Dry wood, stacked and old, provided a ready fire. Strange animal scents mingled with our doubts and fears. The Given, Torin, was gone.

I thought back to our first encounter when I was but a boy. My people had put the story to verse.

He came, did he, son of the ancient Mongol curse.
The milling hoard, 'tis said, took days unto five to
wend its golden passage through the fields of Khazan.
No more the gently swaying white blooms of springtime
whose reflecting streams have vanished into mire.
Gone is the suckling calf and scurrying duck --
dust has consumed the heart of this land.
Gone is the laughter of freedom's child.
Dead is the youth of tomorrow's dream.
The wind howls through the broken sheathes,
stained red in the setting of each mother's hope.
He comes. He comes. Golden does Batu come.

They fell, did they, cities at the crossroads of time.
Each by each they were swept aside by golden wind
that carried no arrow nor awesome Grecian fire.
Rotten within, ruled by withered Princes far,
whose vain riches extended not unto silent fields.
Strong were towering walls at the mountain pass
where ancient plan would have turned the flow.
Weak, weak was the resolve of shallow men
with no tie to the land save greed of trade.
How easily swayed by the promise of gifts,
passage sure, and strong protecting throng.
"I am the gift. Give thanks", calls the golden son.

They wept, did they, simple of the forest and plain,
whose thin arms twisted strong like the mountain vines,
with faces carved with years of torment and pain.
The tears were inside, but gave forth a common bond
born more of pulse with the earth than heaven's song.
They stood shoulder to hip in the meadow.
Women tall, child small, cripples on their knees,
gathered stones and poles and kitchen pots.
They took stand with wooden hoe and brace of cart
for no weapons right did defend their land.
The wind ceased to blow 'neath their stalwart cry,
"We are of the Given -- stand nigh in setting sun."
Batu said, "pass on."

He was there with us, shoulder to shoulder, knee to soil. He had just come to stand in the field. We followed. There was no thanks exchanged or asked. Then he was gone, as if the very earth had swallowed him, or reclaimed him. I learned from the elders of other comings and simple teachings. Each man is given body, mind and will in exchange for God's covenant to love and be loved. That a man must strive lifelong to be stalwart, honest and true were not gifts to be prayed for, or blessings to give thanks for, but a natural communication with nature's bond in work, sweat and appreciative tears. The brotherhood of which the friars spoke was not a dictate of their holy book, but God given right as certain as cycling of rain and stream and endless sea. If you wish to find a friend, look not to cloudy dreams or golden image. Scoop up a fist of rich, pungent loam, or smooth stone or willow twig. Hand it to another while standing in the rain. It is enough.

Of these things we are given. Of these truths are we bound. Our many gifts of song and spirit, of skill and focused desire -- of love -- for these we give thanks and prayer. Each gives rightful thanks to a hidden, internal, universal Spirit -- the image matters not. By these gifts we are spirit bound -- a matter of soul it is said by some. But of those things granted to us by right of humanity -- of God made flesh -- of a world cast as part of an eternal play, of these we do not pray. That bonding right of Givens has a palpable essence of its own -- vibrant, wholesome and beyond fear. Torin is just a reminder -- a wanderer through the craziness of man's denial of himself. For this particular Given, part of an endless chain of those who are chosen, there perhaps was a beginning.

TORIN …

I was but a small lad, in size and experience true. But I remember the words. The figures moved with the flickering sunlight that filtered from the trees. A shadow there -- no, an arm. A fluttering bird -- no ,a laughing smile. Perhaps there were no words -- only a random drifting of sounds from amidst the leaves. "When tears are seeds on the lowland meadow, we will sure come again."

I have thought long on the gifts they have, both real and imagined. The forest skills to track a deer or hide from marauding bear. How to drop a bird in flight and not loose the arrow point. How to prepare for a storm long before the clouds have formed in the western sky. But other gifts too, perhaps. How to steal a wayward child in the night. How to attract a careless boy to deep waters. How to make barren a faithless wife. Gifts? Magic? Tales of gossiping crones?
These things called gifts, sometimes blessing, sometimes curse. Are they born or learned? My father can find water with a twig but stumbles over the smallest stone. My brother cannot sing a note but can catch fish in his tiny hands. My sister is plain of face but has suitors all down the lane. And I -- I have none of these gifts, nothing for prayerful thanks. No skill at arms or story told. Flowers die at my feet and the squirrels chatter incessantly when I pass. I am passably faire at everything, and I get by. But surely there must be a gift for me -- something that sets me apart.

When they came there was no warning, these soldiers from the south. They did not seek land or wealth, but only pleasure in blood and lust and ale. If there was a leader he be not in control, though perhaps that was their way. Oxen lay half-eaten in the fields and grain rotted in broken barrels. Waste, waste everywhere. No help -- no hope -- our knights were serving in another land. Our simple gifted life would vanish here in mud and mire and sharpened despair.
Then it happened!

I walked alone into the square and stood on the piled stones. I reached out wide my arms with fingers in dance. Our love of the earth, this land, swept up though my loins and into my heart. A flash of invisible light burst from my eyes and I was knocked to the ground. A sound alone crashed through the glades and canyons. Its silent might crushed pottery and churned the placid stream into boiling rage. No one understood what had passed. But we all knew!

They came. The arrows rained down on the drunken brawl like hail on a summer morn. Though they ran and hid, each was found to die in agony. We of the land stood very still. Though the blood gathered in pools at our feet, none was ours -- none would feed the land save those who would defile it. Silence -- only silence. The shadows twisted into human form -- hunters, gamesmen, outlaws -- the simple of the forest. Then gone!

I will never have a gift, they say, for heaven's touch does not extend beyond God's simple harmony of man and earth and faith. They call me "The Given." "The Given", just that. Not in honor or awe or respect or fear. Just fact. The memories are mine. So are the tears.

Soul Alive - Troubadours, Bards & Storytellers

2005-07-20T03:36:00.000-07:00

Through reading Faucon's disclaimer, I was reminded of the presence of these ancient figures we have been blessed with through time immemorial. Valid stories with messages for us reach back into ancient history. As they say, everything changes and everything stays the same. To stories, songs and plays, no matter how many times we hear them, we shout "More! More!" and applaud, for deep down we know something is going to click somewhere soon. From children to aged folks, we all share a love of a well told tale, a well crafted song or piece of stirring music, or a well acted piece that etches into our memory. And all we have to do is keep listening....

Purging the Dross

2005-07-20T03:32:00.000-07:00

From a murmer of Monica ...

just in case any of you
are into incantations and such

(I shamelessly write anything)

faucon
............................................

CRUCIBLE

'round the crucible of bubbling delight,
Stirred by the council of EverLight,
Dance the Spirits of Agreement.

In form it is black, on a fire pure white
To fain purge the dross of self-deceit
And refine the soul in harmony.

Find swirled therein the pain of rebirth
Somehow sweetened by eternity's mirth;
Quicken the beginning evernow.

Throw in some Gifts to expand our hopes,
While our Souls clasp the rainbowed ropes,
Binding me to the fulcrum of time.

The secret, my friend, is to let fear go
And to ever stir and not to shirk
The covenant of your being.

AC-1 disclaimer

2005-07-19T12:40:00.000-07:00

Any study of an ancient culture such as Turkic origins requires a suspension of ‘time relevance’ and an understanding of the role of myths, legends and stories within that culture. We speak of events happening, in say 4300 BCE, with little confidence as to accuracy or relationship to other ancient event elsewhere in the world. Only when there are links between archeological finds and stories; or connections with calamitous events can he have any ‘sense of time’. For example, almost every culture has a ‘big flood’ myth and they may all relate to the same earth shaking event – but we cannot be certain. What we can deduce is that every culture has placed divine interaction within the story.

The Turkish language is unique in its construct and formation of words. This allowed many Turkic people to communicate with each others even after long separations created dialects. When meeting at a carvanserai the strangers would tell a series of ancient stories. The purity of the story theme and the language construct quickly allowed the participants to bridge any gaps of understanding due to the changing meaning of words. The significance is that we can ‘trust’ ancient Turkish stories and myths above that of any other culture. The stories were forced to be the same – unchanging as a means of survival. This is comparable to the Druidic practice of Bards memorizing long stories to recite – they were not allowed to change a word. Likewise, many Nordic ballads have key words that relate to specific events – while the story may change the chronology of events is intact. In Turkish this process is even more pure.

Of note is the fact that the Turkish word for ‘man’ is ‘adam’, and was so before any documentable ‘old testament’ application. I believe that the word ‘ADAM’ was selected as the name of the ‘first man’ because it was a word already acceptable and basic to everyone, and the word had been in use for millennia before Abraham and the City of Ur.

This does not mean, of course, that any of the ancient myths are ‘true’ – only that they are relatively consistent over time. Many of the story lines I will share also have collateral support from other cultures. In fact, the myths of the ‘Güserlindeniçi’ and the ‘nightriders’ of which I find great interest are largely from other cultures. These subjects were ‘forbidden’ in open talk, and the complete absence of stories within the culture validates the collateral sources. Nobody makes up stories about other people’s hero’s.

Pick out what is of value in these writing and discard the rest. I ‘know’ that some of this is true. The rest is up to you.

faucon

Monica's Dance

2005-07-19T05:13:00.000-07:00

SEED: "only by going from the black to the green"

A Spirit Black and Green

Memories may guide us in a reverenced dance
of cycled steps from black to green and back --
essentially Life 101 in the college of Attention.

We are deluded by religious mists and yearning
to place faith in pristine white and shining light --
which does but blind us to the pulse of earth and divinity.

It may be true that purest Light holds all colors
of truth and wisdom deliberately withheld --
and that flying ever closer to the flame will find sought unity.

But I think we need look no closer for GodLight
than in a leaf finding rebirth in black and green --
that the blackest loam is filled with truth and wisdom held profound.

For while white reflects all of divinity's kiss
the blackest black absorbs all by right and call --
to share it with each day's dawn and spring of every being.

We rejoice in the reflected green as almost white
while ignoring the dark hued truth of its soul --
seen in Autumn splender as red and gold and rust of death.

As we in confusion see the sunset display,
we discount that the green is absorbed --
to blend in symphony with seeds and ancient soil most dark and rich.

From this molded magic loam will be cast the green
which reaches to the Father star, also green --
a proof of faith beyond the limits of proud humanity.

'tis said that simple love is not an emotion,
but a way of acting toward another --
and in that I choose to walk, in part, the Way to Calvary.

But when I choose to pray -- to find peace and all,
I kneel in the darkest womb of soil found --
hold it to my face and inhale the greenest Breath of God.

faucon

Cave of the Enchantress

2005-07-19T05:06:00.000-07:00

image courtesy of a Tolkein Forum

"I saw a horse and rider galloping at a vertinginous speed along the causeway, through the waves, crashed, now high as the horses's fetlocks. A rider, her black skirt tucked up around her waist so she could ride hard and fast"..

She brings news of more riders coming this way. Word has travelled.

If you have noted my absence over recent days it is because I have been conducting a tour, with a group of Soul Food initiates, and a number of older hands, to the Grotto of the Sibyl in the Umbrian Mountains. I have been busy shuffling them on to transport and have sent them through 'doorways' to discover the Cave of the Enchantress. It has been quite an experience, particularly since I am participating in all the writing activities as we go. Another tour will take off in about three weeks time and there are people already on the waiting list so if you are interested do let me know.

Anyway, I am the rider in black bringing these riders to the Lemurian Abbey to participate in a weekend of festivities. I have a feeling that once they see the place many of their number will not be able to leave.

But I digress! When I walked through the door to the Grotto this was what happened.

Inside the Cave of the Enchantress

I stand looking tentatively at the sealed cellar door that leads deep within, to a place I have been reluctant to enter alone. Others have bravely opened their tailor made doors, but this one has been haunting me for many years. I have seen it in there, amid the parched arid terrain, tightly, heavily closed and I have felt an overpowering apprehension. The fate of Pandora and her box has been well and truly etched into my psyche and I have dreaded the thought of opening it, only to release winged terrors.

Right at this moment something is very different. As I stand looking I can hear sounds that I have never heard before, soft voices calling me to explore the expansive chamber below. Intuitively I know that this will not be the last seal to break but I have been released from a stressful work-place and feel a little stronger, more able to cope and those voices are haunting me.

It has been a long day and I am weary. I am standing in harsh, flat, scrubby plains that have little appeal. I am confused! The Sibyl's Grotto is supposed to be in Umbria, Italy and this landscape most certainly is not Umbrian. The enchantress is not going to be impressed when she cannot find me at the appointed spot.

The voices become louder, urging me to lift open this door, at the bottom of stone steps. The steps remind me of an abandoned factory where I played, alone, as a child. At the end of those stairs there was a sealed door and I spent hours imagining what lay beyond. Curious!

With a strident, unfamiliar self confidence I grab the steel handle and pull it towards me. The hinges had appeared to be rusted but the door opens without so much as a creak. Relief washes over me as I pass through the doorway into refreshingly cool darkness. I lightly touch the chilled, stone ledge and make my way down into what feels like a vast chamber. It is the sounds, the smell that reveal the dimension of this place that I have entered. I sense that this is an enchanted, mystical , spiritual place that I have stumbled upon and stand quite still, adjusting my eyes to the light.

A warm hand grabs mine and as my guides flashlight hits the walls I gasp. All around us is exquisite, sacred art, art that is calling up my past. The rocky overhangs have been transformed into magnificent galleries, adorned with hand stencilled images, painted with striking red ochres and yellow clay paint. A thousand eyes turn to look at me, eyes that had been motionless until I made my entrance. Figures turned in recognition, figures longing for life to be infused into them.

What artist painted these halls; carved these figures, shaped the towering rocky overhangs?

My guide turns, looks at me and smiles. I know her immediately to be the Enchantress that had said we were going to Umbria. "This has been a place of celebration and ceremony for thousands of years. These are to be your quarters for the coming months!" she tells me and before I can respond she has vanished.

Still holding my empty suitcase I look around. No longer dark or gloomy the cavern is filtered with a radiant luminosity. This hauntingly sacred place, so full of atmospheric secrecy, has no sign of permanent occupation. It is pristine, the ultimate refuge. Nearby are deep, dark, still pools, filled with reflections and memories by Mnemosyne, Goddess of Memory.

I put my suitcase on a ledge, leaving it open, ready to store the stories, images, artefacts and look for a place to rest. I am suddenly beyond weary. I yearn to sleep. The Enchantress is gone, riding, galloping towards the Lemurian Abbey. A night rider, dressed in black she is sure to return, eventually. I have faith that she will return.

All the Fun of the Fair

2005-07-19T04:49:00.000-07:00

Wondering about the nature of Xanadu and places like it, I came to find something familiar in my own memories, though not the same. From childhood I couldn't forget the wonder of the Fair with its merry-go-round, hall of mirrors, fairy caverns and haunted house. I remember being in an enclosed ride of swans and pixies and different animals, where as a child you would sit in one of these, and float across a wonderland of scenes on water, mountains, rivers, caves, and fairy groves. There would be fairy queens, wicked witches and various angels and little sprites, all waving you as you went along, clutching the hand of a parent, in awe. We could look at our reflections later and laugh in the hall of mirrors, being ten feet tall, or half our size and twice as wide! A cane of pink fairy floss was the usual fare, and by the time we got home we were exhausted with the excitement of all the wonders we saw and felt. Part of us knows the things that make us happy and content. I think that part is the child.
copyright Monika Roleff 2005

Grandfather's Garden

2005-07-18T08:05:00.000-07:00

Some more offerings from my grandfather's fertile garden - I think you could almost smell their perfume in the sun. (Monika)

Froggy

2005-07-17T20:57:00.000-07:00

I always had a modern "fear" of my maternal grandfather; he was slow to change from the sadness he had in his memory, and this is as it was, because there was no proper witness or container - There was no therapeutic structure in place, where he could examine his wounds. But he was a brilliant gardener, a star in rural Victoria where he had his most enriching days - I delighted in his summer canes of ripe raspberries, and searched eagerly among them as a child, because there were, as I came to discover, always numerous small frogs hiding amongst the green. There was always something bountiful in his garden growing, and I think it helped to heal his dark earth, for his hands did have magic in them, after all. I came to admire him, then, and years later, only by going from the black to the green.

© Monika Roleff 2005

AC - prelude

2005-07-17T05:48:00.000-07:00

I will post some thought related to the ANCIENT CALL
theme that seems to have some support.
Please recognize that what I offer is not ducumentable
in any scholarly fashion, but are comprised
of glimses from literature, personal conversations,
and 'visions', for want of a better term. Em says I am touch
with some ancient currents. What I do know is that I have
occationally written of images and ideas
that have been proven accurate years later --
that 'I knew' without seeing.

So, my offerings here are about 20% fact,
40% supportable through verbal history and myth,
and 40% imagineering (or connection)

I will title all of these 'themes' as AC-1, AC-2, etc.
so that those not interested can pursue other
'currents'.

faucon
.............................................................................

Here is a poem in the 'flavor' of this tradition.

ONE WITH THOSE WHO EVER SEE

He is revered Eskiyalı,
though none do dare breathe this name.

Cursed Gϋslerindeniçi,
he who is blessed beyond life.
Fame is as horsehair of bold Alan,
for none come to him save beyond
death's claim on fear and binding will.
Touch of Bunu gives clear vision,
but know sure he speaks only truth …
which men crave but cannot endure.

Saved are we from the seer's dread eye …
Bound are we to ask but once
a single question life profound …
that he will faire not answer
if our claim be muddled or shy.
Bring not greed or spite or shame.
Seek all, then leave with spirit light …
or shrink and die in mute despair.

Dare you risk your very soul's dream
to one whose ancient tears cut deep
through time kissed humanity?
Life's goal is bent to form the ask.
Prepare self for eternity
in every gift and helping hand.
Do not look to those you do share …
Measure true the trust you can bear.

Be he angel or simple man?
Eskiyalı does here reside.

Xanadu

2005-07-16T05:37:00.000-07:00

Now I brought it up I have to follow through - that muse again!

This comes from a "progressive rock" group from the 80's who were heavily into making myth into music, modern day troubadours who traditionally kept the mystical teachings in motion - nothing is ever lost and persists - I will give credit to them, who bravely provided the lyrics to this piece of music, that I was amazed by in my twenties, but that unfortunately had no container. Needless to say these guys have a cult following....if anyone is interested in further seeking of these troubadours' works, many sites can be found by putting "Rush" into Google. And not forgetting the original work, "Kubla Khan", from where this piece of epic song sprang, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, can be searched through the title at Google.

Xanadu - Conceived by "Rush"

To seek the sacred river Alph
To walk the caves of ice
To break my fast on honeydew
And drink the milk of Paradise...
I had heard the whispered tales of immortality
The deepest mystery
From an ancient book I took a clue
I scaled the frozen mountain tops of eastern lands unknown
Time and Man alone
Searching for the lost Xanadu
Xanadu...
To stand within the Pleasure Dome
Decreed by Kubla Khan
To taste anew the fruits of life
The last immortal man
To find the sacred river Alph
To walk the caves of ice
Oh, I will dine on honeydew
And drink the milk of Paradise
A thousand years have come and gone but time has passed me by
Stars stopped in the sky
Frozen in an everlasting view
Waiting for the world to end, weary of the night
Praying for the light
Prison of the lost
Xanadu
Xanadu...
Held within the Pleasure Dome
Decreed by Kubla Khan
To taste my bitter triumph
As a mad immortal man
Nevermore shall I return
Escape these caves of ice
For I have dined on honeydew
And drunk the milk of Paradise

Help with Xanadu

2005-07-16T05:07:00.000-07:00

You've got me thinking now, who can help with a tune I keep circulating in my head, the song is called something to do with "Xanadu" and the words go something like: "For they shall dine on honeydew, and (...) they shall drink the milk of Paradise"??? It was a group in the 80's who turned the theme into an epic song, but the rest of it escapes me. It's a bit of a muddle. (Monika)

Ancient Call

2005-07-16T03:42:00.000-07:00

Perhaps a sister her can provide a clue,
as you look into currents of the past.

written last year for another site:

faucon
.....................................................

An old acquaintance of mine had a monk student send me a copy of a partially translated "poem" from an unspecified source, but apparently very old (1500 BC). It is written on lambskin with vegetable dyes and many words are too faint to work with. As I have some knowledge of Turkish and about a third of the words are related, it was thought I might help -- given my interest in wizardry to which the title refers. Actually, it was the word "kalbadam' that my friend caught as I have written many pieces on the subject. The words in brackets are guesses -- the remainder fairly accurate. The syntax is only partially adapted to English form as I don't wish to put too much of myself into the piece.

Goeslerden
(Gϋslerinden??--from those who are they who see)

there comes with no [candle] holding,
for of him there are [non] shadows
and the seeing is by [un-eye].
He needs no [night-riders] for [aid]
and travels on [shoes] of feathers
to be gone from now and [moonless].

He speaks of words far [away in mind]
but are known to Kalbadam*,
and sings to children not born
so that fear hides in [caves] of protection.
no [sword-hand-wish] has a home
by the sea of forever [divine thanks].

They are few who are from those
Who also see for those [who are now].
Give him bread of honey and [berry-nuts],
And drink [within] him wine of [friend-bond],
For as did your father's father twice,
And shall be he of your children's [walking].

*kalbadam - 'manheart', ancient symbol of the soul.

Den er vor oplyse , ikke vor mørke , at højst skræmme os

2005-07-15T06:45:00.000-07:00

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. -----Marianne Williamson

Dancing with Duende
Shining Shadows
Walking with Wonder
I go
Into the
Midnight Sun

2005-07-15T06:43:00.000-07:00

Into the Midnight sun

The Black Madonna

2005-07-15T01:19:00.000-07:00

Edwina prompted my musings on the Black Madonna. You know her, I know her, we all know her in memory, she is hidden behind a sacred black veil, and when we call to her that veil is immediately parted and she sits in silent acknowledgement of our (male or female) deepest being. She is the dark aspect of the goddess, the one that accompanies the white and the red. Wise, benevolent and unthinkably strong and wise, she is also known as "Sophia", the one who sees all, is shocked by nothing, knows all. She is our Bear mother, the one who embraces us in silence when our concerns are too difficult for common understanding. Never judging, never questioning, she is the one who hears, then knows, and unflinchingly provides answers though her vast reserves of wisdom. She is the one who pushes us forward and provides strength, lending hers to ours, and being part of our body so we can do what we must.

In Spain, during the Crusade periods, the Black Madonna of Montserrat became well known. Pilgrims would come to her for forgiveness, healing, advice, love, and wisdom. She was an idolised image, and from what my resources say (these will be noted at the end of this blog for further reference if of interest), there was such a feverish love of her that churches, caves and grottoes had trouble keeping her inside. That is, people wanted to have her with them, so there was often theft of her statues and images. There are old wizened wooden images of her that survive, cool dark marble ones, perhaps embellished with gold. Indeed, I had no idea until later in life, that in our Catholic household, we had a beautiful smooth grey stone madonna done by an artist, that we all adored but didn't really understand why. There is a passion for her that defies description. As I said, nothing is ever lost, only waiting to be rediscovered. She is our connection to the earth. There is a striking statue of her in Chartres Cathedral. Many of these were brought back from the Holy Land after the crusades to be put in European churches, shrines, and groves.

A quote of interest from the resource below: "From the tenth century onwards there is a veritable explosion of veneration for the Black Virgin, and the places sacred to her began to draw more devotees than the cult of either the father god or his son. Now, suddenly, kings, saints, and pilgrims flocked to bow their heads before the Black Virgin at Le Puy, Rocamadour, Mont St Michel and Montserrat in Spain, beseeching her favour and endowing her shrines with immense wealth and treasure." Then another: "Miraculous cures proliferated at her shrines. In particular, women prayed to her for safe delivery in childbirth, pilgrims for a safe journey, criminals for release from their sins. The people worshipped Mary as they always had, (...) but for some the statues of the Black Virgin symbolised Sophia-Sapientia, the symbol of the secret Wisdom tradition studied in many places in Christian Europe, offering a sign to the pilgrim that said: "If you are in search of Wisdom, you may pursue your quest here in safety." For everywhere at that time the breath of heresy trembled before the zeal of orthodoxy and whatever could not be taught openly as part of Church doctrine, had to be taught in the utmost secrecy, under fear of torture or death by fire." There is further information following this that links the Black Virgin to the "Song of Songs" that is good reading.

So, there is another aspect to The Beloved, something illustrated by Edwina and her Amazon. Perhaps the ladies in the background represent the sacred wisdom she has, in her darker aspects, the sense of being surrounded by protectors at a moment's notice, supported inside and outside by knowing, of the light and dark aspects, ready and able for anything. Most of all to support herself in any union, indeed, her impending union. So "Dark and Comely" in reference to the poetic imagery of "Song of Songs" relates nicely here, and in some texts it says Rossetti intended it to be so. Perhaps Rossetti intended us to see that everything in the painting is a part of The Beloved? Are these images part of the same woman, all women, tested and trialled by life in so many ways? The black I speak of is hardy yet soft, earthy rich, absolutely protective, enveloping like a mothering cloak, wise, forgiving and nurturing. There are links to her with the original earth goddesses, so there is sustenance in going to her, sitting in front of her in some shrouded grotto, wooded hillslope, or carved out tree. Or she can appear to us out of a void, just when we need her most. She knows all and understands all, when we don't.

Resources: Baring, Anne & Cashford, Jules "The Myth of the Goddess" Viking Books -- George, Demetra "Mysteries of the Dark Moon" (The Healing Power of the Dark Goddess.) Harper Collins

Monika Roleff 2005

Fran for Winnie

2005-07-14T18:31:00.000-07:00

Fran for Winnie
Originally uploaded by FranSb.

Just to remember and take in your case

2005-07-14T13:43:00.000-07:00

This is what I am going to Denmark with, if somebody doesn't unplug this computer!

The Amazon's Ride

2005-07-14T13:02:00.000-07:00

Descended from Strife and Symmetry
Warriors of ancient lore
To restore health and Harmony
The Amazon’s ride to War

The Martial Queen with her ivied shield
A strong memory of spiritual power
Leads her warriors into battle
At this essential echoed hour

She faces the foe with the weight of love
The blazing heart of a swan
From the strength of a circle of women
Comes the light of a glistening new dawn

©Edwina Peterson Cross
June 11, 2005

2005-07-14T13:00:00.000-07:00

A New Sunrise

Welcome Monika!

2005-07-14T12:53:00.000-07:00

Dante Gabriel Rossetti's The Beloved

I do not know you well enough, yet, to be sure in choosing a painting to welcome you. I have been on Google to gaze again at Rossetti’s “The Beloved.” My earliest memory of this painting was in elementary school when an art teacher asked us to consider it because Victorian Rossetti had painted the attendants of different races. I attended a very progressive Laboratory School attached to an International University and I went to school with children of all different colors. I would never naturally have even noticed what the art teacher was pointing out. I was much more concerned with the attendants obvious attitudes of varying distraction. The teacher made his point with other paintings of the period and it was an interesting lesson. I still came away intrigued by the painting, for I felt that though the bride is looking on with such serenity, there was something definitely going on with those attendants. This feeling was highlighted for me by their closeness around her and the looks on their faces. I was probably nine.

Since that time I have had many moments to consider “The Beloved” further, in various different lights. One of the marvels of art, in all forms, is that the reader, the viewer, the listener takes from the art what she/he needs. This isn’t always what was at the front of the artists mind, but in real art that offering is always there . . . a mystery.

I came to where I saw Rossetti’s Bride this way . . . a woman on one of the most important days of her life. She is calm and serene and untroubled. I came to where I saw her attendants, her sisters, pulled tight around her in protection and solidarity. Whatever it is they are worried about, the Bride is not having to worry about it, she is free to consider the mystery she is about to embark upon. She knows she is safe, she is surrounded by sisters. Do they worry that the bridgegroom will be good enough for their friend? Will he care for her enough? Or is it, more universally, ‘the world’ that she is about to enter that they fear for her? Look at the face of the young one who holds the flowers at the bottom and leans her head against the Bride. I don’t know. I do know that this is the feeling this painting came to bring me.

And so . . . even though to put one of my paintings up against a Rossetti makes me laugh a little (Saint Irony, there in the shadows, he is laughing a lot), I offer you this in Welcome. In my painting you cannot see the other women, but you know they are there. This is the Amazon Warrior I incarnated for Heather when Darryl became ill again. Heather’s beloved is threatened, and like Rossetti’s attendants, sisters have risen up from all corners of Lemuria immediately to stand in a tight circle around her. The Amazon Queen is here to fight that which comes in threat. You can see in her face, her reaction to that which threatens her friend. In my painting you don’t see the of the legions who follow her, they are the mystery in the sunsplit . . . but I think the viewer knows they are there.

I liked your introduction and ideas. “There is a sense of submerged longing, for something bright like gold to come up. The knowledge that you are nowhere or nothing, and can easily twist into you are somewhere and everything.” This is so true. I have walked most of my life knowing that nowhere or nothing WOULD twist into somewhere and everything at any moment, knowing that if I stood with my fingers in the water and waited, like the bright salmon of knowledge, the gold would come up. I’ve spent a lot of time trailing my fingers in the water. “She’s fey,” my boyfriend used to say, quoting Yeats, “there’s a mystery on her.” My questing, however, is often not wary, my asking not always cautious. You will see that in my Amazon’s face as well.

Be welcome Monika. I look forward to your seeking, your discoveries, your words of weaving.

That's It!

2005-07-14T11:37:00.000-07:00

Vi wins 50 Lumerian Bunny points for being the first to solve her challenge!

And perfect it is. In my painting (which is below titled Moondaughter's Dancing or Smoke and Moonbeams . . . Unless Heather wants to wave her magic wand and put it next to Vi's poem) you will see 'the author' of the poem in her chair on the top of the cliff. I worked for a long, long time on this piece doing each dancer as a separate painting before I put them together. I was very pleased with how well I felt it captured Vi's incredible poem. In the painting above I’ve moved the poem into the future, and you will see the moon daughters in modern clothing, come to sit at the feet of the Crone and hear her stories.

I am a Crone myself now, but I still sit down at your feet Vi . . . and Fran . . . and wait for the stories to come. Perhaps we will all dance both roles here. Moondaughter’s listening, Crones telling what we know.

Thank you Vi! I treasure this poem.