"The six saimin bowls were stacked as they always are in an upright pillar one bowl nestled into the other. With time the nicks had grown but she never replaced them. Her company, and her family never minded. As a living philosophy the witch kept to her mother's original spell, "People don't come to visit my things; they come to visit me." I think it a spell because in her lifetime those sorts of people were the only ones to visit her. Pale's thick tea mug was emptied of the strong sweet chai, morning was bright with winter sun and only the hum of her computer broke the quiet. She had been up for hours stitching the small pouches that would hold a bit of magic and a few words. There was a birthday party later today but something needed to be stirred together for dinner.A funny thing happens when you step through a door you once shut with determination, intending to leave it shut for all time. Perhaps it's funny if you are blessed with the genes of drama which the Gods and Goddesses chuckle at and say things my mother once told me, "Wait until you have children of your own. You know what I mean." The thing about the way the Ancestors work is they don't tell me off so much as put me into the in between places where I experience all options at the same time. Ever live from a crack in a bowl? Reopening Vardo For Two is much like that. The quote that begins this post comes from a bit of writing done in my on-line, on-going writers' group. We call the group Prime the Pump. I created 'the pump' one February when I wanted somewhere to go with the fullness (and the limitations) of living from Vardo For Two. I could go no where. One definition of that condition might be 'isolation' but I had so much energy that needed out! What can a gal do? One option: create magic, common magic.
Soup? Rising to consider what she could fill the bowls with Pale ran her small hands along the side of the pillar remembering most of the occasions which left the nicks or chips. Lifting the top bowl a thin but growing crack etched from the lip to about midway. "Can you live from a cracked bowl?" She thought aloud. The image of Max, her godfather rose from the bowl like the genie of Aladdin. He said, "I know a story that might answer that. Care to hear it?" The Border Witch smiled at the question then laughed at how stories come to a storyteller. "Let me fill this tea cup, Uncle. I would love to hear that story."
The bit above is a continuation of the medicine and mythic journey of Pale Wawae border witch. In many ways she is my mythic self both more vulnerable and more courageous than I am to the whirl that sees me. But the grand reality of it is, we -- she and I, make for a better whirl because the story is put down. I cannot be sure where my stories lead, just as Pete and I could not be sure what would happen once we imagined a curved roof and moveable home on wheels. Seated as I am now at the keyboard in a Quonset Hut that was no where in my imagination when we were building Vardo For Two, I can tell you with some certainty: the magic lies in the crack.
And, if you need an astrological slant on things. Go here.