Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Healing through the crafting of story ... WOOD CRAFTING's final installment

Dear Whirl,

In the dear well of goodness there is a light that shares itself with all. The likelihood of that light being shared between a human egg and sperm is as unlikely as balancing a single grain of raw rice on the head of a needle ... or so I've heard tell when I have listened to stories told by old wizen grandmothers answering a child's questions.

My own life is closing in on the tale end of a human's existence now and when one lives with a dark night of the soul, or worse even, a string of dark nights the end seems a blessing with the pressure to keep that precarious balance. There is no doubt a transcendent quality within the soul that draws the mortal angst toward the light. Challenged as so many women, men and children are on the Planet with illness and imbalances concocted by ill-placed motivations and an addiction to hording, Sensitives such as I seek to use Art as a vehicle ... a way to ride through the daunting losses. When Art is not enough, loving support from compassionate and skilled guides, healers and loved ones shore me while my inner fire is re-kindled. For that assistance I offer this story as a thank you.

My Art is story, and Wood Crafting the Tale is a piece of other-worldly telling for me to heal my way through the losses and grief of living with MCS. The Art speaks of voices unspoken yet more powerful than utterance; cosmic connection that is the thread of soul's food and the Everlasting; Nature's beauty and her unquestionably enduring quality. Though I never consciously planned the final installment to coincide with the release of a calendar of nearly naked women telling their truth after MCS; never planned to share the final installment of my healing fairy tale as a tonic for my very real and painful bout of depression and suicidal angst this is what is happening.

In time for the new moon that rises tomorrow morning (Wednesday, December 16th) I share the final installment of Wood Crafting the tale here at VardoForTwo where the story began in the Spring of 2009 when a golden wagon rolled onto a ledge in the woods. Through the sharing I embrace the dark and light of mortal existence balanced with the grounded NATURE of life from the Ever.

And now the final installment of WOOD CRAFTING the Tale


Written by Mokihana Calizar
Copyright, 2009

Please enjoy the tale for your own pleasure,
but do not reprint it or copy it for any other purpose without permission from the author.

(see the sidebar for my contact info)

Shelela and Shenia … She the little and the small

Our story draws closer to its destiny, dear ones. The journey broad, the telling savory, the lessons wrapped in filigree and sennit, bundled in cedar boughs and hidden on bits of driftwood from islands far south of the high mountains. The tale cannot be finished without knowing more about my own dear birthing, and that of my twin Shelela. If ever you will need the nectar of the place to taste the truth, it will be here as I braid the final hank into place. Have you kept the kettle hot for tea? If you have neglected the small ritual it would be a fine time to raise yourself to the burner and bring the spring water to a boil. A story always tastes the nectar of the place with tea.

We must return to the beginning and listen as my own dear mother and father consider the choice Kaimalama Noa has made.

Shemaladia of Osprey listened as her mate to be recounted Kaimalama’s disclosure. Both my parents were full-size Grey Wood Crafters. To see them now, their heights would surprise mortals for they were Giant in your vocabulary. Perhaps as large as twelve feet from ground to head feathers, Shemaladia and Freeilll were among the last of the Giants with coil of stardust and bird nearer fairy than human in spite of their size. My mother waited for my father’s final word, looked deeply with her eyes closed and sought any unspoken thought that might linger in his telling. When she found none there Shemaladia asked, “Are these mortals long in coming? Will it be within our cycles they be here on The Planet?” Freeilll Noa felt certain the mortals would come only when his name and that of Shemaladia of Osprey were as fairy tales or make-believe. “Do you see the lesson in our mating as a birth-place for our future coveys, a warming of a different sort to prepare our twins for change?” My father simply nodded, affirming Shemaladia’s intuition. “Kaimalama has opened a channel to the Ever of the future through his choice. What has been is reassembling, and though you and I have enjoyed the Grace of Grey and crossed the Cosmos with our gifts there comes a time for loving the small, birthing the value of reserve and it continues with our mating. We have been asked to value a concentrated version of ourselves, leaving behind that which no longer serves, embracing all that will likely flourish forward. My brother’s choice will reveal the nature of small when nurtured. He has lived one hundred cycles with a secret kept. Hording polyps, fish and the moving winds examples of secrecy and a grace ill-founded.”

Shemaladia of Osprey remembered the moment she first saw Freeilll Noa. “What will our twins be like from our mating?” She had thought that then, and now she knew the answer was “different.” The lid of stars that poured stardust from the constellation of The Big Dipper would open within three moon rising. Time was still on the side of destiny. My mother had received many gifts of gratitude and thanks over her long life. Souls lost and found often gifted Shemaladia with tokens of their appreciation. Thinking of her pouch of brocade that held those gifts my mother conned in my father’s direction, “I believe a clue has been with me all these many cycles. A gift from a sister lost to herself gave me a circle of silver with stone of pink quartz. The ring was too small for my claw. Pink quartz is for the healing heart, perhaps the perfect size for reassembling the size of a Wood Crafter’s egg.”
In the end the ring crafted of silver with stone of pink quartz was indeed the perfect size for twin eggs birthed by Freeilll Noa and his mate Shemaladia of Osprey. The lid of stars poured their stardust as it had for times back into memory, and as it has been for all those times, mates of destiny embraced their dance of bliss. One of those paired is said to have embraced with a small circle of silver held tight between their breasts. The ring of silver split between my mother and father. Each half was absorbed into their hearts creating two halves the size of perfectly reassembled eggs, twin girls named Shenia and Shelela Wood. In the scheme of destiny we were the first of the covey to be She the Little. My mother and father viewed the future knowing the new race called Mortals would grow with the spell of hording in their coil. Like my uncle the spell would be like a mask unconsciously worn unexpectedly risky business. My parents chose to value the small concentrated good that had until that point lived grand, large, and Giant. We sustain our Grace through that choice and look from our coveys and warrens at the mortals who are called Sensitives and Spell-binders and watch for one woman in particular who has memory of kin and kind. That mortal carriers the gift of Fantasy … a willingness to forget all and then, she will make room for us to join in. From the Ledge near the Pond of Ever a woman fitting that description has moved herself and her mate into a wee wheeled home. The fairies are keeping close watch on things on the Ledge, and warming on a branch is a pair of violet eggs the size of a mortal woman’s earrings.

This story is braided complete for the while. Mortal destiny lies tentatively on the balance between grand and small. Sensitive kin with dreams falling down around them are the clue to a reassembled beginning. Will the race who has been spell-bound by greed begin anew, release what no longer serves the original Creators’ song and step gently back where the nectar of place is sipped, shared and for goodness sake, never horded? Cross your fingers and make room in your dreams for fairies and Gypsy Frog kings to join in. Until the next wind gathers the dust of story ~ be gentle with your stepping and kind in your encounters.

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