Friday, July 31, 2009

Stars ... the golden cord of connection

The Pleiades

Earlier this week, during the first night of the 'ole moon cycle, our dear cousin passed from the body into spirit. Rosalind Mokihana was two years older than I, and between us we have shared the name Mokihana the name given to each first born girl in the family on my mother's side. In name and blood this dear cousin has been a sister to me, and to Pete he found a sister like no other. During the years of our relationship Mokihana has been an uncommon friend, loyal and supportive through the decades of navigating the human condition. As kids we lived in households as different as mountain and ocean ... As young adults I marvelled at her energy and zest to fill a day with a gazillion accomplishments including maintaining her classic Mustang. When I returned to the Islands after more than twenty years away, we began our spiritually bonded lives and I found a soul that could embrace beliefs that weren't easily expressed. Mokihana opened my heart to the teachings of Mu and the practices of spiritual consciousness.
She was a teacher and lived that life giving away everything she knew, everything she had. She served and loved do it. It was her purpose and her challenge. I think she lived her purpose through with characteristic zeal.

When Pete and I married in 2004 it was Mokihana who orchestrated our celebration insisting she could and did do it from a hospital bed. The night before our wedding a house full of cousins and three friends from the American continent prepared a celebration with makana (gifts) and mana (energy) that has sustained us in magical ways.

When we left O`ahu in 2008 we knew we would not see Mokihana again. The treatments the cancer in her body were more than she could transmute and while the chemicals weakened her, I believe there was a resolve of completion that increased in direct proportion to her physical limitations. The connection with Ke Akua the Creator became even more powerful, and then one day just weeks after Pete and I settled onto the Ledge in the Woods my cell phone rang. Now that is not probable, possible but not probable. There is no cell phone service on the Ledge. It was my cousin. She had a very important message to relay. "This is a cosmic connection cousin," I told her when I heard her voice at the other end of that contraption. "Well, it must be a clear channel just for this." She relayed the news that after ... what almost forty years? she had located and be in touch with her first born son ... a son she had given up for adaption at birth. The connection dropped as soon as she shared that news. It was just what I needed to know, and I was the only person she needed to tell.

Mokihana passed from the body on Monday evening Hawaiian Time around 9:40 PM. Pete and I were awake at that eary morning hour (three hours later) ... I heard a deep resonant ring in my left ear, a very different tone than the usual vibration ... "WoW," I told Pete what I heard and he got that something or someone was making connection. The next evening my brother called with the news that our cousin had passed into spirit. Via cellphone and via the clear Golden Cord of Love that connects us all I got the message

I'll love you forever.

Pete and I got up early Wednesday morning, our time 2:00 am and looked for the constellation of the Seven Sisters, The Pleiades. It is the place that is home for Mokihana. It is the place from which her seed was born. Over the tops of the second generation of firs that live near the Big House overlooking the Lake, I spotted the light of the Sisters. From the porch of the Vardo I waved and said to Mokihana, "Yes, I'll love you forever." Pete had laid the old wool poncho onto the sloping ground near the gardens. From that spot we celebrated our cousin, bathed in stardust we opened to the life of a grand lady. Shooting stars and stars still blazing in place lit us as we celebrated life. Just before we finally rose to go back into the Vardo, one final star shot across the top of The Pleiades. In deed, she is home ... Mokihana what a fine life you shared.

Onto the comfort of the futon we went after perhaps an hour on the sloped ground. As if I needed just one more assurance that the lines would always be open, my left ear rang loud and this time a clear high pitch. She was calling again, "Home ... safe at home."

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

'Ole Days of the Moon: Monday through Thursday

Clouds over Hawaii Island ... one of my favorite things
Photo Credit: CKB


The 'ole days of the moon began Monday and will continue through the week until Thursday moon rise. We've had connection goofiness here on the Ledge finally resolving them last night. So as is our practice we will be back at the blog Friday or some while there after.

New viewers may like linking to the sites on the sidebar leading you to more about the Hawaiian Moon Calendar.


... you might delight in this post from alchemist and joy-bringer India Flint relating to "Wabi Sabi" ... I did delight in it for sure.

...and, another link from India Flint to ZenHabits and letting things unfold

...still another bit of sourcery from Kathryn Cassidy about attracting magnetism

(post modified on Thursday)

...if it's a fairy tale you're craving perhaps snippets from the eco-tale Wood Crafting I've spun might satisfy you. Link to the installments thus far (3 of them in order and then one that lept ahead a bit).

Wela keia (it's hot here 94 degrees on the Ledge yesterday) and for you?

Be cool.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Preparing for winter, The Mobile Bird

Take a look at the adjustments we've made to our blog formerly called The Mobile Birdcage...renamed and infused with freedom.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Why I write fairy tales: When the real is too unreal 101

When the real is too unreal
~ a walking stick in the helpful people corner becomes a magical o'o

I'm starting out my day this morning (now more than eight hours ago) with a glint of the positive in me. It's an early start to the day and we are preparing to go work with Claude the Greenman in his Shelton gardens. Another day of working for food is a great way to spend time. We collect our jugs of well water, take extra clothes just in case, pack our lunch, finish boiling up the organic eggs for nibbling on the way down, and make sure we take the freshly dehydrated buckwheat crackers for the Greenman. The drive is an hour and traffic is busy ... lots going on so we both pay attention. For whatever reason we get to the gardens ... no Claude. We didn't email him to confirm ... so we wait an hour and leave him a note, "Aloha Claude .....we're going to the Olympia Food Co-op and will swing by afterwards to see if you still need help. A hui hou (seeyoulater), M & P. No this part of the story is not one of the reasons I write fairy tales. The next part of the story is why I write fairy tales.

To get to Olympia Pete took Highway 101 South. The roadsides are drying up from all the dry summer weather, even though the morning was cool and overcast the green was definitely more straw than evergreen. The weeds and undesirable vegetation was already recycling itself into seeds. Here ... this is why I write fairy tales. Up ahead I see that there are Washington State trucks in driving slowly along the center divide between H-101 South and H-101 North. Tank trucks!! The tanker truck in front is spraying fan-sized liquid onto the already drying undesirable grasses...that would be herbicides. This is the stuff that makes my liver bloat with toxic overload, burns my skin and my eyes and adds to the unreality of the convenient yet warlike choices to keep poisoning without permission. Poisoning is poisoning, without warning or way to escape/take a different route ... THAT IS THE REASON I KEEP WRITING FAIRY TALES.

Herbicides and Pesticides are bad. Those chemicals and their by-products kill quickly and kill slowly. There is nothing good about them, and I actively send my emails and sign my name to the guys in charge of all this nonsense telling them to 'JUST STOP IT ALREADY.' As long as I have some energy to keep doing this sign my name to things thing I'll probably do it. I accept that my body is exposed over and over, take all the precautions I can, connect with support people and then I GO WRITE FAIRY TALES.

Here is the third installment of my full-length fairy tale WOOD CRAFTING written with inspiration from the beings and forms of nature that live here on the Ledge. In so many ways the experience of being human is alien to me: I just don't get way we allow the military, the corporations, the leadership of powerful conglomerates to tamper with 'clean and innocent.' Since I don't get it ... I open to the source of my imaginings and draw the ancient wisdoms of systems greater than greed to weave a tale of a re-assembled reality.

If you are new to VardoForTwo this is one form of expression that happens here... story telling and fairy tale conjuring is often the only way to make sense of the nonsense. Building a life from a wee wheelie home will do that. When you live small, the truths come knocking loudly. Catch up on the other installments of WOOD CRAFTING by linking below:


And when you're done there ... come back to here and read forward ... or, if you wish to just jump in here the story will take you where you need to go. In a fashion a fairy tale is meant to defy time and reason since this tale anyway is written because the real just seems too unreal anyway. This is a very long tale that will last a good many installments so enjoy them as you will and know that if you too have found your world unreal and unfit for the time that fits neatly on the face of a wristwatch there is time for you here ... look for it.

Put the kettle on for tea, find that comfy blanket and join me for a bit of a story ...

Copyright, Mokihana Calizar


Mokihana Calizar

Part I, continues

Freeilll Noa of the Islands

Cosmic islands existed in the stories of Wood Crafters for as long as wind was given air to breath. Spread across the skies the islands rode the winds in the southern hemisphere and in particular the Wood Crafters favored the air near the constellation of The Seven Sisters. My father’s covey fished the waters of The Seven Sisters for generations and was valued for their lore of tidal richness and sacred prayers. Unlike my mother’s branch of Crafters Freeilll Noa of the Islands was bred to a tradition of listening and except for the unproductive nights of the moon … when fishing waited and utterances of mending and maintenance filled their breaths, his was a silent covey. The Crafters of the Islands could hear a fish rise from the still evening pond a constellation away. Fish were not caught for sport, only for life. Prayers were exchanged at the moment of capture. Death and life replaced the other and no death went uncelebrated as life grew from the loss.

The keenly tuned sense of hearing tended well in a world that was gentle of sounds; on star dust a language of modulation matched the sounding bones within the ear of Island Crafters. Rarely did an Islander wander or be given need to travel to Woods where the song-tellers voices filled the skyways, and if such occasion arose there was always preparation for the assault. A lifetime of communication on star dust alone could be debilitating to a Novice who chanced upon Song or Story out loud. My father was no Novice when he heard the sound of his own name called across the archipelago on what felt to him like a tidal wave. It was an unusual time and a wave of volcanic proportion had been predicted by Honu the sea turtle with memories of time before silence. As my father sat on a stump he reserved for mending his nets and sharpening his bill, Honu surfaced in the shallows. “The day is malia for a day of rest. Unusual for the cycle would you say?” Honu conned his thoughts in my father’s direction. Freeilll had noticed the differences in the tides in recent cycles and nodded to Honu, “I have noticed this old friend. The winds are very gentle and seem almost to be asleep else where. Perhaps an anomaly … ought we be concerned?” The sea turtle had lived through many, many transformations in these cosmos and knew my father would not question if there were no need for concern. “Things are changing Freeilll, I notice how much warmer the oceans are for the season. Hatchings are early and the fry are small but have extremely large eyes and no protrusions for ears. I have felt the swell of a wave volcanic in size. Prepare the covey for the wave. Be ready for the calling. Listen for your name.” With that Honu dug into the sand with her flippers and turned to submerge her mountainous self into the deep.

The night of the full moon is excellent for fishing. My father was accustomed to carrying his small eyed net to the waters edge on the night of Mahealani. His fishing companion was a Crafter less than half my father’s size. Somaia of the South was a cunning man of nearly two hundred cycles with feathers once bright red like the prized fish of the deep seas. Now Somaia’s cape was a subtle salmon, mottled gray feathers alternated through this chest. Though age had softened the color of his cape, Somaia was still a listener unsurpassed. My father and his friend had just reached the marker stone off the southern- most island when the quiet of deep space crackled with the sound of my father’s name. “…Freeilll.”

The voice was clear, deep and captivating. In less than a moment of thought my father was tilted off-balance seized by his talon the voice drew him. The ride was swift and stardust swirled to keep up with him. Somaia’s shock did not last his instinct and loyalty snapped him into action. As his friend shot straight through the sky like a comet the finely woven net dropped from my father’s wings. Somaia dove for the unfolding sennit catching it with talons spread as if throwing it at shore’s edge the old fishermen reserved his motion, and rode the updraft. There was no time to conn between them the speed of the capture commanded both men’s attention. And then, as quickly as it had begun the ride ended. “Where have we come? And why now, Freeilll?” “Honu warned me of the call, prepared me for this. Where? I don’t know. Why? There will be time later.”

The songs of the warming were nearly spent. The seeping light of morning peeled back the glow of moon. My mother’s song completed the night of telling, and she was ready for sleep until she saw a most remarkable sight. A great Grey, a bird like herself, but different and a small reddish bird the size of which she had never actually seen yet had heard of from the crones. A web made of string clung to the small bird who seemed wind-burned. The sight that woke Shemaladia of the Osprey from her tiredness was the ears of the obvious strangers. No member of her covey had ears on the outside of their heads.

The crones felt the presence of the two strangers and were within fingertip of Shemaladia in an instant. Tandalori, the most ancient spoke first, “She, you have called two souls from the long distant archipelago do you recognize the strangers as friends?” Shemaladia was stunned, a condition of which was not usual for my mother. Mute, she simply shook her elegant feathered head from side to side. Aina stood at my mother’s side and laughed, the crones knew then that the strangers’ appearance was expected. Tandalori spoke again, this time her lightning blue eyes crinkled in Aina’s direction. “Are you the conjurer of this event? A Reassembling in the making seems to me.” Without answering the question or the speculation, the old owl nodded instead and assured her sisters that there was no need for upset the day was dawning, the young ones needed to be bedded and guests needed attention. “She, you have souls to attend and a place to prepare. Go and meet your mate, it was you who called him and he needs to know your name.” Still speechless my mother did as she was told.

Shemaladia of Osprey flew from the warming circle with her long time companion, Oona of the Song. They exchanged glances and though I cannot be certain, history records Oona winking at my mother with girl-like anticipation at what could only be called a great adventure. Freeilll and Somaia by this time had reconnoitered, they agreed they were in the Northern Hemisphere of Ever and between them the evidence of a hunter’s covey was without doubt. They heard my mother and Oona before they could see them. Somaia was not without shame as his bill slackened, talons still gripped on the sennit net he had rescued from the fall. He had never seen a Wood Crafter as beautiful as the two winged beings he watched circling above. From the air came noise, “Welcome, we come to bid you good tide and hospitality,” the golden feathered one sang first. Unaccustomed to hearing words both men winced at the sound and drew into their necks instinctively. The women landed inches from them and bowed their beautiful heads in a dance of welcome and then softened their song to a whisper, this time Shemaladia spoke. “I am Shemaladia of Osprey and this is Oona of the Song. You have come to the Land of Osprey, and are welcome.” My mother and her friend carried bundled cedar pouches filled with sweet pine nuts as signs of kindness. If Aina was correct, these travelers would have never eaten the sweet nut of the Sacred Pines as the salt water Islands would not sustain the pine.

Now it was my father’s turn to be stunned. After his ears had adjusted to the whispers of the Osprey, he too marveled at the graceful curve of my mother’s crescent beak, and the shimmer of her black feathered wings hypnotized him. Somaia prodded Freeilll from trance, and pressed a long-rested memory from just above mid-center in his friend’s breast. My father found his voice, “I am Freeilll Noa of the Islands and this is my companion Somaia of the South. We are from the archipelago of the Seven Sisters, fishermen of the reefs and oceans of the Southern Hemisphere and we came when my name was called across the skyways.” For a man of silence, the spoken introduction was clear to hear. Somaia’s pride was apparent as his normally salmon wing feathers glowed more brightly red than they had for decades. My mother was equally pleased with the sound of the silent fisherman and in response she called upon the memory of conning that was introduced to all Wood Crafters throughout Ever. With her eyes closed she saw the song in her and sent it without words, “I have been told that my story song has led you here and that you, Freeilll Noa of the Islands are to be my mate. What you know may be the same, is it so?” Straight talking, song-maker she has been, my mother was not a hunter of renown without being on the mark. She had hit her target and now the Reassembling could unfold with rapid course.

The four Wood Crafters sat in a circle with the bundles of sweet pine nuts in the center. Never to be without provisions, the two fishermen drew ropes of dried and salted fish from the warmth of their under wings. Laid open the bundles of cedar that carried the sweet nuts, made simple platters for both sweets and salted foods. I would have loved to be at that first dinner with polar opposites that morning. Witness to the first awkward nibbles on tiny nuts for the bill-faced men who had never eaten such tiny fare would have been fuel for cosmic comedy. What has been passed in translation is that both bills and beaks fumbled with the delicacies offered that morning. At first neither pair knew exactly how to approach the problem. It was Somaia who finally melted all pretenses and conned with pure honesty and hunger, “I will need some help to taste your sweet pine dear ladies.” With that the old fisherman, made a coil of his dried fish rope with his bill, moved a mound of sweet pine onto the fish with his talon and with one gulp swallowed both with gusto. His smile served as contentment. The observing trio laughed with relaxed ease, and with an eye to his hostesses, Somaia offered up a coil of dried fish rope and sweet pine nuts to my mother and Oona of the Song.

Monday, July 20, 2009

COSMIC PIE: Using the natural zodiac on the way to a satisfied soul

The Natural Zodiac
Cosmic pie in twelve pieces

It's a glorious summer day. Life is full, the dehydrator is drying up the first batch of Pete's Buckie Crackers we've made in two years, Bernadette our '66 one ton flat bed truck has a new windshield gasket (which is making Pete light-headed ...

time in the sun for off-gassing will be next!) so we can eventually drive her in pouring raining, we've got our wheat grass growing and juiced a bunch for breakfast. I'm moving forward in clearing the pockets of pilau (crap) left from herbicides and fragrances from scents. Plenty of good stuff is happening. The fact that there are rough patches through which we scrape our way is part of the whole, and in light of all this evidence of positives it helps to acknowledge how I get through the rough spots ... part of the process of opting out of suffering. In addition to the helpful treatments and caring ways in which I malama this makua, there are the cosmic pies like astrology. Let's see if I can translate the use of astrology and the natural zodiac to get at the bigger picture. I'll start with this comment I left over on this morning and let the story unfold. Link on that highlight above to get a full picture of the astrology of things.

"This is a big piece of Cosmic Pie and this ole girl she loves pie. I’ve been following the thread and watching the vids to eat just one more piece of Cosmic Pie. I am in the 12th house phase of my understanding and ultimate acceptance of the reassembled truth of my health. I am affected by the whole and after 15 years of trying to out run the natural zodiac I get that my plane is down, the losses are great, the grief exists, I have been pissed with the gods and they still hang in there to wait it out with me. I’m cappy moon in the the 12th living in a moon shaped house on wheels smaller than plenty of folks’ walk-in closet. I get to accept my fate and grow gardens where EVER my wheelie home rolls.

The Cosmic Pie you’ve served up here Elsa and the wonderful conversation that was shared because someone (Double Cappy, thank you:]) asked is so perfect. I’m gonna try to translate this onto my blog today, maybe a great thing for a solar eclipse that is supposed to be easy on the Scorps. Thanks a million Elsa and all."

This is turning out to be a very long post, ... so take a break, get some tea, take a nap and then come on back.

"after 15 years of trying to out run the natural zodiac I get that my plane is down, the losses are great, the grief exists, I have been pissed with the gods and they still hang in there to wait it out with me. I’m cappy moon in the the 12th living in a moon shaped house on wheels smaller than plenty of folks’ walk-in closet. I get to accept my fate and grow gardens where EVER my wheelie home rolls." For readers who are new to this blog, welcome to our world where solutions are wide, deep, broad and linked together in an eccentric way. Astrology is one of the many tools I use to make sense of the nature of human. I don't always get the 'why' unless I go way out there, and really have a newbie sense of 'how to be human' so much of the time. Living with Multiple chemical sensitivities, allergies has been a struggle. The recent exposure to herbicides has tripped the lever on healing at a deep level for me. I used the holistic/Pythagorean explanation of retracing to sort through the process of re-living the aggravations and illnesses/symptoms. It helps me. I seek the personal stories of others who have found solutions to their exposure symptoms.

Astrological insight gives me a view beyond the physical and taps into the Cosmos where words are fleeting, and navigation more ancient. The thread of comments that grew from Elsa P's videos suggesting the use of the Natural Zodiac to opt out of suffering included some very personal insights. I especially liked this comment from Toni, and with permission from Elsa (thanks, EP) I am rewriting it here as a way to connect the journey through the zodiac with my own experience accepting chronic illness and multiple chemical sensitivities. The clan of canaries who live with or support the lives of canaries with chemical sensitivties and environmentally induced illness find relief and solace in diverse ways. Health is defined in so many ways. Here's one way of reckoning truth.

Thanks, Toni

Note: for anyone who is unfamiliar with the Natural Zodiac there are many informative sites to explain the Twelve positions or Houses of the Chart (pictured at the start of this post).

The Houses start with Aries in the 1st House, found at lower half of the chart in the 8:00 position, and continue counter-clock-wise in turn.

1st house- Fighting physically/emotionally.

I return to Hawaii after a 23 year marriage ends. Childhood asthma shows up in reaction to mock orange blossoms and fireworks. I am shocked! I fight back, go to the emergency room and get oxygen, inhalers and a diagnosis that "You have asthma!" Ha? No asthma for 23 yrs away ... then I do. Talk about retracing.

2nd house- Saying ‘no, this isn’t happening.’

Exactly! 2nd house is all about action and anger. I went through lots of that, years of it. Anger directed at my ex-husband, and then the flowers, my past. Things just kept irritating me. I keep fighting, take the medication, and try to get my way.

3rd house- Thinking of a way to get out.

I have a large head, and a history of thinking or reading my way through problems. I had no idea of what 'multiple chemical sensitivities' was or that I was headed down that track. There was surely something else going on with me ... a fix was some where I was not! Emotions, relations and communication get tangled up and crazy.

4th house- Grieving.

New love had come into my life. I grieved the old, yet the hope of new love fueled my sinking ship, my diving plane. There was no doubt my health was tentative, I was moving more in one year than I had in 23. Places weren't safe for long, that hurt, I didn't know how to 'do' this. Where was my place called home?

5th house- Searching deeper in your inner self.

I turned to yoga and supplements to heal me. I walked into the rooms of Al-Anon for a spiritual practice that would tie things together and turned my life over to a power greater than myself. Thing is, I thought the 'cure' would kick in and level life out. I was still doing the control it bit, but I was doing it with grace and Mountain Pose.

6th house- Thinking of the details in order to get out.

Health crises increased even with my yoga and Al-Anon foundations. I began writing more and more. Used words to craft a world that comforted me, explained the inexplicable. The teacher me sought service to others as a way to make things better.

7th house- Weighing both sides of the plan.

My thyroid expands, swelling to the point of undeniable 'issue.' I look at all the possible solutions and decide not to have the glands surgically removed. I still hold fast to the belief that the body - mind - spirit will heal. I begin a raw food life, see healing results and continue to be on the move from one more toxic exposure to herbicides and VOG. We move back to where we started ... and begin spending summers on the continental USA. My relationship with Pete changes, we marry.

8th house- Psychology, like Elsa said. Why am I feeling this way?

HERE'S WHERE A LOT OF TRANSFORMATIVE POTENTIAL LIVES ... I come to this very question ... "Why am I feeling this way (after all the good stuff have been doing to make it different?" Saturn and Mars play significant roles in my 8th house. Saturn is about the step by step slow and steady process and no short-cuts allowed reality. Mars is the way a person acts. Together I began seeing that something was missing from the view-master. Pieces were missing from my jigsawed life. There was no denying some things:

1. pesticides and herbicides are bad period.

2. people use them and won't change their habit even when they see how it made me sick. Bad People!

3. moving from house to house/island to island/island to continent was wearing me out.

4. what were the options?

9th house- Why is God doing this to me? What’s the meaning of all this?

At this point Pete and I have bottomed out significantly. We are living in the car, being rousted by the cop, and keep getting poisoned by herbicides. While living in the Subaru we come to sleep nightly at the Tide Pools near Sandy Beach on O'ahu's west side. This is a major healing spot for me. Of the many places on the Earth, these Tide Pools have been a source of care for me since I was a small girl. Night after night we pull into our parking spot after dark and set up our car for sleep. Unsure of our 'safety' yet given no other place to be surrender waits and we drop into it.

Meaning comes from the humiliation, and soon we find that indeed, 'our plane is going down' and there's no stopping it from crashing. We become nomads with a diagnosis: nomad with multiple chemical sensitivities. The illness is not just in my mind, it is in my body.

10th house- Limit the problem.

Six months of living off and on in the car gives you a set of boundaries that could come from no other experience. We know a few more things, and have left behind most of our former chattels of living. We know mobility is a good option for us. We suspect we could build something safe and mobile. We begin to recognize the limitations of a 'formerly normal house' and use surrender to craft a land ark.

11th house- Hoping and wishing. Praying.

Friendships and hope come in such different packages during this stage of our process. In a year we live with or in the general vacinity of eight different friends or family members for as little as a few hours to as much as six months. We do more praying than we'd ever done. We hope for guidance when decisions don't make sense. Some people 'get the conditions of this illness' most don't. I learn to hide from old friends who knew me 'before.' It's easier to not explain.

12th house- Surrendering to the universe and believing there is a bigger plan.

I think we're here now. The blogs we began writing back in October, 2008 are the musings and reality of a surrendered life. Multiple chemical sensitivities is a real day to day, night through the night reality. It is not going to go back to being 'like it was before.' And, it's not likely we would be able to live as we have lived before. My search for transcendent truths take me from fairy tale maker to astrology student, raw food and organic gardener to writer of eccentric blogs and lover to a mate who came to me later in the Cosmic Pie Eating process.

Chronic illness is the universe's ultimate practical joke. It might not seem fair on most days, and probably isn't. Just the same, it does something to my evolving sense of surrender to consider that possibility. If you've made it through and have some energy for a comment, I'd welcome it. Comments aren't common here, yet there's always a possibility ...

Saturday, July 18, 2009

Fruits of our labor

part of the rewards of our gardening work ... pints of blueberries, raspberries and blackberries
The harvest: 32 pints of plump fresh-picked blueberries

We have lots more food as reward and exchange for labor.
lettuces for making Green Smoothies
carrots for making Pete's bucky crackers
young beets to make Mokihana's liver happier
zucchini for making sauteed in coconut tempura

In the while to come we'll share some of the local and organic recipes we conjure to fuel the dreams that have patiently waited and rested.

Take care and aloha!

Growin' organic, Blueberry Sauna, Workin' for food

Donned with my be anything Turtle Pareau, shades and visor I was in blue berry heaven. We left the Ledge for a day of workin' for food with Claude The Greenman. It was 85 degrees and more in the sun ... a perfect day for a blueberry field sauna.
Claude and Pete get to know each other, and start to pluck the juicy berries.
Talulah, the resident farm dog waits patiently for me to catch up. That's a bit of a view of the magnificent farm The Greenman stewards. Acres and acres of stream feed food in the Shelton Valley, Wa.
Back on the Ledge our squash blossoms and broccoli were awesomely embracing yesterday's summer sun. Ahh...they are beautiful our organic compost gardens grow last year's seeds and this year's (purchased) starts.
Barely visible and simply invisible if you don't slow down to notice, the miniature world of free tree frogs are delighting in their work for food ... teeny bugs and other things make these beautiful friends happy. And we are sooooo happy to have them in our gardens.

More of our dreams are coming true with this season's connection with 'aina(land, that which nurtures and feeds) and organic farmer Claude Mahmood. We have been long time investors in growing food and teaching others to use the food that comes sans herbicides, pesticides or chemical fertilizers.

Now that we have built our beautiful Kolea Nani (aka VardoForTwo), there is time to grow community and that's what we have begun to do by working for food.

When we lived from the car and on the road the dream waited, resting for another season.

Dreams wait

Dreams rest
Aware of fickle will
They sniff nature and come when an opening reveals...
Dreams wait after resting and grow.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Thank the gods for MCS ... RETRACING ILLNESS, The Body-Mind Wisdom, Zen-down parlor, 12th House Perspective

Kwan Yin greets us at the door with daisies from our garden, gifts of tea pot, painting, galloping horses vase and three precious ocean stones in a pot of aloe. The tall swirling glass goblet a treasure still with me after all these years ...
Our zen-down parlor thanks to the healing affects of retracing
Changes to the oasis bed-room space ... lightening up, seasonal change, ulu (breadfruit) hang on the back wall.

We had a visitor to the Ledge yesterday. Company and social graces are often part of the losses that count heaviest in the process of living with long-term chronic illness. Multiple Chemical Sensitivities makes a visitor a very big deal! Our visitor is a friend who also lives with MCS. She was in need of a day's escape from serious logging being done right behind her house. Mustering enough energy to make the two hour drive is one more example of the tenacity that bubbles to the fore when you know what needs to be done, and do it even when it's hard. We spent the afternoon chatting and generally hanging out on the steps of the Vardo, conscious that there was lots of tree VOC (volatile organic compounds) emitting terpenes and tannins. Still, the promise of good company and shared experiences with an illness that creates grievous losses made the afternoon a time of grace.

When our friend called to say she was on her way Pete checked with me first. "Are you still up for a visitor?" He knew the past few days have been rough with symptoms. "Sure!" I answered still dazed from disturbed sleep, irritation and sensitization to EVERY thing, and an invitation to slip into the dross waiting with my name of it. I took all the time I needed to rest and comfort my body and mind that morning. In retrospect something I have known for a long time was feeding me positive inclinations. From the homeopathic frame of consciousness and well-ness the experiences of the past week have been and continue to be Retracing the illnesses that my body- mind remember allowing healing at a deep level to be possible. If I fight that natural wisdom the process is tougher. It lengthens. If I am unconscious of the process it's likely the Retracing will re-peat the next time I am exposed to an old trigger ie. herbicides and pesticides.
Today I needed to clear out even more 'furnishings' from inside the Vardo. A newly built oak bench milk-painted by my dear man Pete set off a reaction. No, not yet and maybe just 'no.' A change in the porch done a couple days ago is triggering additional reactions. The switch of sensitivity is 'on' and when it's a high-end trigger like herbicides the Retracing phenomenon activates. What I was not reactive to a month ago might create a reaction today ... This is the stuff that can be maddening if I take up that invitation to the dross.

I always look for the messengers and the messages(link on the colors to get a 12th house astrological perspective from one of my messengers ... Elsa P.) and a Visitor is always a messenger in what ever guise she comes. Because there was a distraction from the usual, we enjoyed interaction, shared stories, insight, laughter and strawberry rhubarb pie made fresh by aka. Turtle Woman. The reality of aging and illness showed up with pie, yet it was not the only presence. Retracing symptoms also called 'healing crisises or healing opportunities' kept showing up. The vertigo, the aches, sore throat and the explosive need to go to the toilet are all part of the Retracing. Along with the symptoms we have cleared the front half of our tiny home and now have a zen-down parlor with tiles bare and clear, a lighter covering of old cotton panels on the back wall and when we're not using the heater or laptop we pull the plugs to reduce electromagnetic emissions.

Here's an excerpt from an article called "Retracing: The untold story" from the Pythagorean Center for Natural Healing Newsletter. It may be review to some and new to others. It was just what I was needed to remember today.

The inability of the body-mind to self-heal may be expressed in these simple terms: health is a balance between inhalation and exhalation. In other words, we must be able to inhale good nutrition in the forms of good air, water, food and constructive emotions and we must be able to exhale physical and mental toxins. When this cycle is interrupted we develop "accumulations" which lower our vitality.

Natural therapies can open the circulation, restore the nerve supply, and improve the nutrition, allowing a person's well-being and self-healing ability to slowly increase.

Constantine Hering, MD., the well-known American homeopath, formulated what is called Hering's Law of Cure which states that "disease is healed from inside out, from the head down, and in the reverse order that it appeared." Healing occurs in the body at the deepest level first, then surfaces by moving from the head to the toes. The patient's most recent illness is the one that heals first, after which previous illnesses are "retraced" back to the oldest (historically).

As the patient begins to heal, he/she frequently experiences what are called "aggravations" which are flare-ups of present or past illnesses. These flare-ups are due to increased blood and nerve supply to blocked areas of the body, and after the aggravation, the patient always feels better.

Daniel David Palmer, D.C., founder of chiropractic, also referred to the flow of the healing process as "above, down, and inside to outside." This universal law of health, by its very existence, indicates that the body has its own priorities in getting well and, in fact, knows what to do better than we do. The Vital Force will direct its own healing if we supply what it needs. Dr. Bernard Jensen, D.C., Ph.d., in his book "The Doctor Patient Handbook," acknowledges the awesome potential inside all of us when he states:

"The body could manifest no greater proof of its ability to be self-adjusting, self-regenerating, and self-healing than it does through the retracing of disease and the production of the healing crisis."

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

WOOD CRAFTING The Book: Chapter 1 The Covey

Good day to you where in EVER you be reading this tale. If you have just come upon the page, catch up on the opening lines if you wish ... and learn what fueled the story. Over the while I will share the writing of this Ledge story, one that is timeless and maybe timely. It's for the memory of a truly blue and innocent sky I keep writing and telling Fairy Tales.

Here is an additional bit of storyteller's food, something I found while searching some where to hear Ursula K. LeGuin ... one of my teller's inspiration. Link here to listen to Ursula K. LeGuin speak about the ways writers deceive themselves (and a few other things).

Copyright, Mokihana Calizar

Part I

The Covey

Shemaladia of Osprey

There can be no Now without the fresh water pond that we call the source of Ever. Inconspicuous to the eyes of mortals the source of Ever is simply one among thousands of small ponds that serve Frog and Salamander during the seasons of winter and spring. Rain and snow fill the source of Ever and allow passage between the realms of beings too little to be significant to the large and the Giant. The warmth of summer turns the watery pond into grassy meadow, a spot where deer bring their young to bask and grow strong of foot. The source of Ever remains undisturbed below the layer of meadow, activities of small and grand consequences continue in natural progression. I was born to the beings called Shemaladia of Osprey and Freeilll Noa of the Islands, a pair as unlikely as imagination. My place of conception is the constellation you on the Great Planet called the Big Dipper. I am a twin to my sister Shelela Wood. It is difficult to describe exactly how the birthing of our covey started. Language is such fluid media. Let me try to piece together descriptions that will illuminate. In a time long out of memory, there were a cluster of stars that served as a kind of lid to the Big Dipper. Ancient and rich in life-giving light this lid of stars opened once every ninety sunsets to allow a scoop of star-dust to flow like silvery cream into the darkness of the deep source of Ever.

The Wind moves in constant motion throughout Ever, and on those ninetieth sunsets pairs of beautiful winged ones swirl into the silvery cream of star-dust in a dance that is like showering rain. Together the pair embraces in a love sublime stirred by the Wind an orgy of exquisite light grows within each of them a single beautiful pebble-size egg. Though tiny, the egg is heavy with the weight of wind that has come from the Great Planet. The combined memory of stardust and wind weight draws mated pairs to a particular place on the Great Planet, where the two great birds lay one violet egg a piece. In the beginning, the pebble-sized egg once laid grew to the size of a human woman’s fist. My parents’ Great Planet nest rested high in the crag of a lightening struck fir not far from a pond in the foothills near the Two Brothers a giant’s step from the ledge where a once-young couple pulled a wheeled wee wagon to make their new home. Could they have known that they were being called to such a place of power and Reassembling? I think it is possible the woman knew she was called. But, there will be time for that as the story grows.

My mother Shemaladia of Osprey was a woman of golden eyes and silver-black feathers that glowed iridescent by star-light. She was a great huntress with beak the shape of the moon’s first curved crescent. Cycles of sunsets and moon risings had passed before Shemaladia of Osprey took a mate. Her destiny of independence stretched the covey’s norm of pairing before one hundred cycles. But there were no rigid time restraints on the huntress and other talents endeared her to the covey and beyond.

One night a very long time ago, the covey’s sisterhood gathered at the edge of the Lid … a wall of stones that ran the length of their wood. Songs of the warming were always part of the full moon gatherings; trills and memory melodies sung one after another from dusk until first sun taught young, un-paired women the past and the future. The laughter, wisdom, mischief and adventures of Ever were part of the ruckus and all females relished the brilliance of the moon light and fueled them in their connectedness to All. “Shemaladia of Osprey,” Oona the Songstress called. “Would you be sharing a Song of the Hunt for these young ones tonight? Could you be convinced to tell the story of riding winds and hunting stray souls for us tonight?”

There was never a need to convince my mother to tell a story, to be sure. The gesturing query an invitation and long-standing protocol Oona and Shemaladia had enjoyed since they were children. “Oona of the Song, the story is ripe for the telling, never a need to ask me twice, you can be sure of that.” Shemaladia’s golden eyes twinkled as she flew to the center of the covey’s semi-circle the women of all ages whistled and cawed their pleasure as Shemaladia, “She” in this circle, perched lightly on the bough of a great cedar and began to sing a song of wind and hunt. She began with the high shrill call that is the marker of all Osprey ….“Kreeilll,” the sound filled what seemed the entirety of the deep sky and in fact that is what happened when Shemaladia of Osprey began all her full moon stories.

Though she was unaware of the special magic afoot on this particular night, there was a glow to her beak unmistakable to 'Aina the aging Owl who listened with her eyes closed. “She is laying a trail to her mate this night, she is,” Aina the Old thought to herself a smile hidden beneath her lidded eyes. “One hundred and one cycles is a very good time to begin a warming of your own, Shemaladia of Osprey, a very good time for warming in deed.”

Shemaladia began her story song as she had for nearly fifty cycles …

Into the night of the full moon bright

Sky filled with star dust, and winds just right

There is a telling of times that were pure

Neither wink nor shout the cure.

Babies and mothers

Brothers and fathers

Sisters and cousins

Blood that is common a clue.

Time was a keeper

Of this and of that

You can be sure

I have checked on the facts.

A night filled with moon

Is perfect for riding

The trails of the lost

Souls who have ‘capened

Just why would a soul

Be escaping you question?

Why take a trail that

Breaks hearts?

What is a heart?

A cup, bowl or cave.

Seen from moon

It beams crystal.

On a night when light

Is equal to sun’s bright

A hunter will see

Who rides darkly.

These are the souls

Who have eaten

Beyond all that

Is sacred.

Wind-stained and emptied

Dark souls stand ready

Open to fuel or be cloistered

She sings into the deep

A song that will tap

Into well moist with memory

The taste still familiar

The smell warm as tall wood.

These are the words

To the song that will

Capture the heart

Of a soul thought lost.

Sing loudly.

Sing joyful.

The moon full is precious.

Sing them here.

Sing them home.

“Kreeilll, Kreeilll, Freeilll…”

Shemaladia of Osprey bowed to the winged clapping of a thousand Wood Crafters and then flew to the logs below to join her sisters, cousins and crones for a feast of fish and sweet pine nuts. No one had noticed the new sound that ended the song that full moon night, 'Aina the old was right of course my mother had formed a new sound, one that fit the ear of a wandering Wood Crafter. Freeilll Noa of the Islands heard his name and turned as if this talisman of the wind was a noose held fast to his silver talons. He was captured.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Molded by the Moon, Kanaloa and Kaloa Akua of healing, planting and `Aina

The eye of Kanaloa
Photo Credit and the excerpt below:

Kanaloa was the god of the ocean, a healer god, and the close companion of Kane, the god of creation. They would journey together, share the sacred drink of 'awa, and use their staves to strike the ground and cause springs of fresh water to burst forth. Rare statues of Kanaloa feature him with round eyes, unlike those of any other representations of the gods. According to a Kauai tradition, if you could look into the eye of Kanaloa you would see the pattern above . In the Hawaiian language, "kanaloa" is also used as a word that means "a sea shell; the young stage of a certain fish; an alternate name for Kaho'olawe Island; and secure, firm, immovable, established, unconquerable." A root translation of the word, ka-na-loa, means "the great peace, or the great stillness." The word also has the connotation of total confidence. In the esoteric tradition of Huna Kupua, Kanaloa represents the Core Self, or the center of the universe within oneself.

Pete and I have an affinity to Hina the Moon. With each cycle of the moon our life from the beautiful wee home VARDOFORTWO seems to be molding us in wonderful ways. Small space gives us an intimate relation with the "fewer" things we cart about and then there are is ALL the rest. Last night was the night of 'Ole Pau ... the third night of rest, restoration and weeding. One of our dreams of connection and community grew when we went for a drive to find organic, local and green growing food. Our compost raised beds are growing beautifully with squash blossoms that promise more zuchinni (we ate our first) and winter squash of unidentified varieties. It's the organic green and leafy goodies we need. We met Greenman (Claude Mahmood) at the Shelton Farmer's Market a few weeks ago and knew HE DA MAN! Our promise to find his organic farm where Claude practices Earth stewardship( malama 'aina we call that in Hawaiian), help with gardening chores AND talkstory about building a gypsy caravan for his girlfriend finally came together yesterday. At the end of a Dead End street in the woods about an hour's drive from the Ledge we found The Greenman, The Herbalist and gardens growing in beautiful red-brown loaming dirt. I was on a mission for greens and left home without my camera. So I must trust my fingers to write a picture that will satisfy you dear ones. With an intuitive sense of the general directions, and a name that "I'll recognize when I see it" we sought the farm. A slim young man in royal blue sweats with yellow hair like fresh whipped butter was getting the mail. I called to him, "Hi! We're looking for the guy who grows organic greens." "Oh ..." He walked toward toward the road and pointed back to the end of the road. "He's just there!" We thanked the gentle man and backed up. The huge fanning leaves of rhubarb was the obvious signal we were there. Pete walked ahead calling. "Hello ... Claude?" From the shoulder high vines of raspberry vines a voice called back. Claude and his girlfriend Kirsten (sorry if I spell your name wrong K.) had berry baskets round their necks picking the ripe inimitable raspberry colored fruit. We were there unexpected, yet not unwelcome. The fruit is delicious, the vines abundant and the stewardship heart-warming.

Patches of berries and vegetables grow in domiciles of beautiful dirt. A plow and hand tools evident along the fences that run one side of the gardens. We had come for greens: lettuces in particular to make green smoothies to alkaline my herbicide exposed kino (body). Claude grows and sells to a small lucky grow of local families in a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) relationship in the Shelton, Washington area. CSA are one of the most vital and effective forms of farm to table, person to person growing and eating models on the Earth today. We've been part of that CSA model as helpers with an Oahu based CSA called "Just Add Water." Claude The Greenman got us into that same helpers mode yesterday. We walked and talked through the gardens, ate peas off the vine, gobbled raspberries, nibbled at dill growing wild between young corn stalks and then we set to planting our garden-starved old feet into the dirt as we bent over to weed.

The day was gentle ... the first rain in a long, long time had watered the gardens. It was an easy weed. Amaranth, Lamb's Quarters and an ocassional cilantro plant were part of the 'weeds' ... Pete wanted some of the Lamb's Quarters for the Green Smoothies. Truth be told, by the time we finished pulling and tending the two long rows of lettuce most of the Lamb's Quarters remained in rows of weed mulch when we left. The rhythm and movement of weeding was better than any treatment I could have sought from the city. I wore my cotton mask because I am at a higher level of sensitivities to -- whatever. The mask eventually caused warm clouds to fog my glasses, so I tucked my glasses into my sweater to continue. The round heads of lettuce rose beautifully on the red-brown dirt. Still stretched like a tipi over the rows my legs and my okole (butt) muscles left the twinge of exertion. Good work! It was my hands that were the art though. Both Pete and I looked down to see and feel the miracle of Kanaloa, healing Akua of 'aina at work in us.

Claude wondered what we were doing out there for so long, "Must be getting a lot of Lamb's Quarters." When we finally made it back to the raspberry vines where Claude and Kirsten had filled a flat of the berry beauties, our reward for weeding had cooled from the garden warmth of being freshly harvested. Three heads of dark green lettuce, a fist full of beets for a fair dollars exchange made our 'Ole Pau weeding time just right. We're going back again to Greenman's Garden, on Friday to help pick blueberries so he can sell them at the Saturday market. Claude has a trailer he thinks might work for Kirsten's apothecary wagon ... a vardo for the herbalist, what a perfect way to start helping others built their dreams on wheels. Pete's excited to see what Claude's got brew'n.

Last night as Pete slept next to me Hina the moon asked for my company, keeping me awake for a stretch of the night. I said my prayers of thanks to Kanaloa for the day we had spent in 'AINA (the land, that which nurtures), pulling weeds. My dear old kino vibrated with the nourishment of food and work from the land. The dreams were healers, too and today is Kaloa Kukahi ... the first of three moon cycle days and nights where good planting happens. Bless the farmers who tend without chemicals, plant by the moon and share information as comfortably as they pluck ripe berries.

Link here to check out Greenman's Garden website. We've also put him on the sidebar for everyday, anytime connection to that great resource of Earth stewardship and great gardens.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Saturday, Sunday and Monday are the twenty-first to twenty-third nights of the Moon


Saturday through Monday are the 'ole nights and days of the Hawaiian Moon Calendar. As is our practice we rest ... new posts start up on Tuesday. A hui hou.

'Ole Ku Kahi, 'Ole Ku Lua
'Ole Pau

(Twenty-first to twenty-third nights)

First, second and last `Ole nights. This is a time that is not recommended for planting or fishing. It is windy and tides will run high. Farmers use this time for weeding. `Ole pau and Kaloa kukahi are the kapu periods of the akua Kanaloa and Kaloa and offering are made with pule(prayer).

Link to the Hawaiian Moon Calendar to learn more.

Friday, July 10, 2009

ALCHEMY of hope: riding out toxic exposures, inviting saving graces

Pete and Jots taking a good long read in the dandelions

Life on the Ledge in the Woods is culling us down, like a head of romaine lettuce with outer leaves tattered by whatever has happened to it the heart of the whole lies there. Our journey to the Ledge has tested our belief that there is indeed a reason for our being here. Pete and I are stepping through the most recent exposure to herbicides ... denying it can be happening doesn't work, and even the best of safe-guarding don't prevent people from choosing to do harmful things. We have done what can be done at this point: make contact with the State of Washington Pesticide Sensitive Registry person and will get the local applicator of herbicides on the list with the goal of being informed of any future spraying before it happens. Then, there is the issue of testing our drinking water (from a well here on the land) to see whether the ground water is safe. We're checking into that.

It was a difficult time last night, going through the bottoming out of an exposure when the emotions are darkest and the light dimmest. Thanks to Susie Collins' The Canary Report Forum I have found a place to put my question "What do you do when exposed to Herbicides?" out there for feedback. Useful and supportive replies filled me with hope this morning. I use these blogs to express the truth of my experiences. What may not get as much 'press' is the incredibly costly investment of time and energy my mate and caretaker Pete expends while on the clock. It's a full-time job and the pay ... well, the money's not great yet hopefully the fringe benefits remain to sustain him. All you who care for mates and partners, parents and children with MCS are a clan of merit. Thank you.

Another bit of hope and connection came from Julie Genser, Founder of Planet Thrive. We have been in contact with this insightful woman and today she has published an interview with us Vardo folks. We are honored and thrilled to be part of Julie's new website MCS SAFE HOUSING. The interview GYPSY LIFE: Notes from the Diaspora was a thoughtful and thorough conversation that makes me believe there is a purpose for this journey. Humanity is part of a whole multiplicity of life on Earth, it is not the dominator nor the reason for life here. Creating safe homes and being safe for all OTHERS is not a grand purpose ... it is the purpose.

Mahalo to all the Graces in our life.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

not all those who wander are lost: truth, schmuth

not all those who wander are lost: truth, schmuth

I found something to laugh about! Click on the link above for some creative enterprise.

Because the Real seems Unreal ... let me tell you a story

I have written a fairy tale, a long story to escape the world of humanity that too often makes no sense at all. This story has two parts, I have finished the first part and envision it to be a teller's tale ... one spoken and listened to as all good fairy tales were told before there were tree skins marked with ink.

The story began when we arrived on The Ledge and poured through me like warm chocolate. It soothed me, transported me and gave me a place that did not poison me. I seek the story for refuge and the words come to me I do not seek them. Maybe, there is something here for your dear heart read as if there was a voice canting. ~

Wood Crafting

Copyright, Mokihana Calizar


Inspiration for story comes quickly when the world that is your Real seems Unreal or far harsher than you’re able to endure. Fairy tales have been a world into which I have escaped since a girl in bare feet found solace in the crook of a mango tree. Away from All there were other possibilities, and making believe made it possible to get beyond. Escape has meant many things to me in my sixty plus years, and with the on-set and persistence of the illness called MCS (multiple chemical sensitivities) the word has been my life. At first escape simply wore me down and yet as in most great adventures there are one or two talisman and guides who appear at just the right time for just the right purpose. Nomads and Travellers, Gypsies and Migrating Beings offer me the gift of alternative mind and reassembled prospective. To all of these guides and examples I give thanks. To make sense of the need to be on nearly constant alert to the choices of others, choices that will affect me ill, I have found comfort and resolution in the conjuring of modern day fairy tales. Fairy tales that do what they have done for time into memory: taught lessons, made sense out of bad things, explained the un-explainable and used language that all ages could understand.

Wood Crafting was born from an incident that happened while we lived in the industrial south-west area of Seattle. One day while on a beach walk I found a beautiful small piece of rusted metal. “Perfect rusty decoration for the vardo,” I said to myself. I was excited and without thinking I finished my walk, took the rusted treasure with me and drove home. Beach walks were and continue to be one of the things and places that restore my health and offer oxygen rich air. I treasure the walk and the air. What happened when I got home that night is the stuff of the Gods. It was late winter in Seattle, and the temperature still very cool … thirties at night. Excited to show my husband my treasure, I called him from the curved home he was completing. As I held it up to show him I spotted something I missed while on the beach … a tiny being, a barnacle just settling in. “Oh no,” I’ve got to get him back. By then it was dark and the barnacle would have to wait. I said my prayers, asking for forgiveness for the over-sight and knew the temperature would keep the creature from drying up. I tucked it into a bucket and hoped for the best. One excited mortal woman picks up a small piece of rusted metal with a creature in residence. It was enough to grow this story, this fairy tale. That is what happens when one notices, and gods willing, our noticing will be enough to stay on destiny’s good side. There’s a chance we’re not too late. Cross your fingers, boil the spring water for tea and join me for a story.

From The Ledge in the Woods,

Mokihana Calizar June, 2009


The journey to the satisfied soul is personal in length. I mean, what is long to a fairy is a step for the giant. The seasons on the Great Planet have begun to change for her inhabitants. Kings and Empires are quaking as their stores of riches seem to evaporate from the strong boxes of the enterprises they created called Banks and Markets. Imagined wealth conjured from what was once real goods took a chapter out of the book of greed and clung to much more than was necessary to live a full life. There are of course, many paths to re-distribution of energy and power. Some paths are gentle and easy, others more edgy and harsh. We Woods People have watched from our tiny warrens and coveys and wondered when the weight of that greed would topple the few. Seems the time is now. Before the tale grows any longer please allow me to introduce myself. I am called Shenia Wood and I am the keeper and teller of story from the high mountain woods. We are an old race of Great Planet beings, more fairy than animal and nearer human in look though our feathered ancestry is undeniable. In all ways we are yet so much closer to stardust than most humans remember. Our covey like birds are birthed from eggs with shells the color of violets. Warmed and parented by two Wood Craft, a pair of eggs is born to a couple once in their very long lives. The warming period lasts ninety sunsets and within that time, stories of connection and remembering are poured into the growing babes who listen from inside their porcelain shells. This is the story of wood crafting, the ninety sunsets of song and listening that pour all that has been as well as the knowing of yet to be, into the spirit of each growing egg. This story begins in the foothills of a great range of mountains just far enough away from the smog filled cities of industries where these song memories have been lost. The tall old ones in the high mountains breathe rich life-giving oxygen to the land, where a pair of once-young humans pulled a wheeled wee home onto a ledge overlooking the clear fresh water pond that is the source of Ever. They, the once-young humans have begun the Re-assembling and it is this process, and the warming period of a Wood Craft that lasts ninety sunsets that are the twin trails to our story. Snuggle into a comfy quilt, keep the kettle hot for tea and let us begin at the beginning.