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

WOOD CRAFTING

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.

WOOD CRAFTING: Installment #6: Side-kicks and confidants

WOOD CRAFTING

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)

Side-kicks and confidants

Somaia of the South had lived more than two hundred cycles and in his sphere of the Cosmos, his age and experiences were valued as an elder. His quiet presence was delightful, and Oona’s twins were especially taken by the old fisherman’s talent for spinning. At least that is what the two young girls called the thing Somaia did with the fine threads that drew from just below his bill, high in the chest of the salmon-colored Wood Crafter of the Islanders. Seated on a large flat stone the two girls and their quickly adopted uncle, Somaia of the South spun and wove intricate patterns of netting in a size that perfectly fit the small spread of the girls’ present talon’s grasp. “Spin me one like a swallow also, Uncle Somaia,” Glenda with the braid of golden feathers like her mother cried. There was no end to the salmon one’s patience. He was born to entertain and satisfy the needs of little ones, and as if Fate had finally approved a second chance, Freeilll Noa’s loyal friend seemed to have found grand-children to love. Oona of the Song had left the trio on the large flat stone after the sun was high enough to warm the rock against the still cool temperature of the morning. With her guest obviously well-cared for, Oona set out to gather a pouch of pine nuts and returned to check on her charges. Glenda and Glennis were each pulling lengths of gossamer fine sennit from Somaia’s chest. Without questioning him, Oona recognized her new friend’s unique grace as that of Spider able to spin web-like netting for the exquisite fishing nets that are known throughout the Cosmos. Freeilll Noa and his Somaia partnered graces unique to the other and together their destinies doubled. With a smile as broad as sunlight itself, Oona left once more, this time it was her turn to fish. Without announcing her intention, the songstress soared for the heights as if to distract the fish who might have been listening. The sun had moved mid set; the fish would be rising to nibble flies. Oona of the Song was Osprey and though an Osprey did not spin net, or throw the exquisite nets for a multiple catch, her covey were talon fisher folk and their skills were well-honed.

Oona found Somaia perched on a limb bobbing gentling above two golden heads circled peacefully into their soft, downy wings. The twins were napping, the sun’s light soft in the skies of Ever. The old man dosed with the swaying motion, resting from a day that had until today, been a vision of unrealized possibility. A contentment and satisfaction glowed from the old man rendering him a different man, a younger version of himself. Oona felt herself tingle with an emotion she found unexpected: fondness or perhaps something growing beyond it. Raising the twins since the passing of her mate shortly after Glenda and Glennis were four cycles had not been difficult. Wood Crafters complemented the care of young without a second thought. No young ones were without frequent and regular touching, unlimited exposure to joy, laughter and song, and encouraging the graces blessed upon each unique soul. Still, her feminine nature enjoys the attraction of a graceful male and there was something very appealing about the red-feathered male now softly snoring in the branch just above her daughters.

“Ah, you have had good fortune with the hunt,” Somaia blinked awake and cast a respectful glance at the minnows still wiggling in Oona’s claws. “Yes, the pond of Ever is bountiful and the hatch of flies such irresistible feed for the hungry little fish.” Both fisher folk enjoyed the simple reality of the catch and set about easy and quiet conversation blending the silence of conning with the lilt of Oona’s incredible trills. At the smell of fresh minnows both girls woke, appetite for the tender water morsels greater than sleep. Though the girls were well past the age of being fed like infants, on occasion Oona pampered them by feeding them, making a game of the meal to their delight. Somaia watched with admiration. “Join us.” Oona’s invitation surprised the old fisherman. It had been a hundred cycles since he had fed a young Wood Crafter in such fashion. His own twin daughters, a memory that rose from Somaia only at his most secret times, were not more than a couple cycles older than Glenda and Glennis when the illness struck the covey of the South. Oona did not notice the change in the color of the old man’s eyes, but did notice he seemed to have left himself for a place she could not imagine. Oona asked again and added his full name of creation as if to connect more purposefully, “Somaia of the South,” this time she flew to the limb within inches of her new friend. At this distance the change in Somaia’ eyes were unmistakable. The color of his eyes had drained to vacant space reserved for grief, a place where miracles wait to replace regret and loss.

Glenda and Glennis, not yet satiated with minnows or sweet pine nuts noted their mother’s concern for Somaia. Though young, Wood Crafters at a very early age feel compassion and understanding. The sweet pine nuts were laid open on the cedar leaf plate and a basket of tiny minnow were easily within reach. When the twins had their fill they flew from the nest to perch beside Somaia and their mother who continued to beckon their friend. Glennis sang first, “Mother, where has Uncle gone? I see no light in his bright eyes?” Glenda, who rested at her mother’s wing tip, craned her young neck to see what her sister saw. Oona looked first to Glennis and then to Glenda. In the covey of Osprey, the grace of song was born from the heart. The themes of song warmed during the birthing into the songstress’ twins … knowing, caring, strength, compassion, forgiveness and loss. Oona’s girls recognized loss though had not yet learned its other names. Words were not necessary now. Instead all three Osprey simply pressed close, a tiny girl on either side of the old man and around the trio Oona hovered, her breast feathers rustled against Somaia’s back, her wings lengthened into an embrace. A silent song of warming poured light into the grieving friend, as the gloaming cast its translucent light upon the approaching evening.

They come in the gloaming, the fairies. They come in the gloaming between light and darkness. Ever the givers of love surrendered, they come with the light mixed stardust and sharing. They come in the gloaming, the fairies.

The night was deep before Somaia had recovered sufficient presence. The girls remained pressed tightly against his wing feathers now uncharacteristically damp from the embrace. Oona heard Somaia fumble with his wits, unsure of whether to con or convey his loss, his grief unburied. She gestured simply, “Wonderful to have you with us dear friend. The night is full and we have missed your company.” To her daughters Oona gave thanks, “You marvelous creatures are a mother’s joy. How strong and caring the two of you together become. Embracing and replacing loss with understanding is an Osprey’s essential grace. And you Glenda, you Glennis shine with the gloaming now. Our dear friend Somaia has shared a part of his soul with you in the gloaming. He has initiated you into the lineage of fairy.” As their mother’s song ended the sparkle of fairy dust … a fine and magical mixture of stardust and gloaming, outlined the wings of the twins. It was Somaia’s turn. Strengthened as he had not been for more than a hundred cycles the small salmon-colored bird began pulling pearl-like sennit, unlike the sennit spun for fishing, this sennit truly hung with minute pearls no larger than the tip of a pin. With expert manipulation, such as the tatting of lace-makers Somaia fashioned small pearl lace head-dresses perfectly sized for the head of each songstress fairy twin. “These are the same head-dresses I tatted for my own daughters now many, many cycles lost to me. The Creators have blessed this old fisherman with daughters anew. If your mother will have me,” his voice switching from conn to voice he whispered, “I will seek her as my mate and you as my own daughters.”

Fairy-making is an occasion of inordinate spontaneity. Emotion, feelings are ALWAYS the initiator. I mean, logic or clearly organized behavior is part of the recipe for fairy-making but it is emotion that instigates magic. A great store of emotion welled up in the small old fisherman by a simple game of feeding two baby Wood Crafters. And now, the covey of Osprey was two fairies richer and as for the old salmon-colored, or is he now a red-feathered fisherman from the South of the archipelago of the Seven Sisters? Is he now to be a father and a mate at two hundred cycles? If you will let me, I will spin for you a story born from the heart. I will spin for you a tale meant to soothe and enlighten …stay if you can, stay if you will.

Working behind the scenes: Wood Crafting the series

I'm doing some work on the sidebar to allow our readers to click on the installments of my eco fairy tale WOOD CRAFTING. It's tinkering with things so it may take a bit to get things clicking as they ought. This whole idea of a series of installments came as a surprise to me (the Universe is tricky) so I'm playing with the technology at my level of understanding and working as fast as I can to get this gadget working, and add more installments for your enjoyment. Hope you do enjoy the tale, seems we have more visitors when there's a tale a foot, and a fresh kettle on to boil.

Is the tea ready?

UPDATE:
Okeedookee. That cup of tea was pretty good, and the sidebar over there should work for linking and reading the five installments of Wood Crafting published thus far. Please let me know in the comments or email if you have a problem with it. ~ Mokihana

WOOD CRAFTING: Installment #5 "Destiny's Mates"

The tale of WOOD CRAFTING resumes with the stitching together of two beings from opposite sides of the cosmos. The installment that follows reveals the character and grace of these beings and weaves as well the signs and indications of space out of balance. Elders will share clues to the changing reality and destiny will proceed with the sharing of a meal.

Since this venue of publishing leaves an opening for me to speak to my reader as if we were chatting in a sort of book-club, I will tell you (if you have a thought to question this) this novella/fairy tale was not outlined and thought out before hand instead it was as Jane Yolen writes on her blog/notes to writers,

I generally do not think out plots or characters ahead of time. I let things roll along. Organic is the word I use for this. But actually I do it because I am a reader before I am a writer. I want my own writing to surprise me, the way someone else's book does. If I think out everything ahead of time, I am--in Truman Capote's words--"Not a writer but a typewriter."

To the outside eye this may seem a lazy way to write. It drives anyone I work with crazy. But I have learned to trust those intuitive moments when stories seem to leak from my fingertips.

This story did pour through me like warmed chocolate.-MC

WOOD CRAFTING

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)

Destiny’s Mates

Back at the meadow where my mother and father shared their first meal, the morning light and the energy of growing love fed the bond between Freeilll and Shemaladia. Bidding each a knowing nod, Oona tipped her head in Somaia’s direction and the new friends flew off to Oona’s treetop to leave my parents to their destiny. Time passed without notice as Freeilll recounted his message from the great sea turtle. Shemaladia listened with concern as she realized the signs of change. Warming oceans, tiny hatchling and indications of tidal upheavals meant life as Wood Crafters knew it would become different. Her life as huntress of lost souls with hearts darkened made her intimately aware of those who had eaten of riches at the expense of another, with no permission sought, love felt or prayers in offer. Freeilll Noa of the Islands subtly inhaled deeply and shifted his messages from conning to voice and asked his beautiful companion, “I know nothing of your story, nor your crone’s premonition. Will you tell me?” My mother looked across the space that separated her from my father, breathed in a slow deep breath and began with the telling 'Aina the Old had given her not one moon rising ago. Shemaladia of Osprey recounted the slip of her traditional song’s ending that altered the collection of stardust. Like shavings of your Great Planet’s metal attracted to a magnet, the usual three-part cant had changed just enough to attract my father. “I am a Grey, like you marked at birth to be an agent of Reassembling. Like you my destiny escalates one hundred fold when my life includes a mate. It is the way I have been taught to remember, and now you are here.” Shemaladia’s golden eyes sparkled with the dust of destiny as she paused from her story and looked deeply into Freeill Noa’s silver eyes. He was in love with the mate of his destiny, just as his tradition had promised, so in love it seemed, all objectivity vanished. A strange weight settled into him collecting in the tips of his talons. My mother continued, “I am a hunter of souls lost and in all my cycles of searching for the soul, your capture marks a change. You are not a soul lost in the darkness, and neither is your side-kick Somaia of the South.” Freeilll Noa chuckled at Shemaladia’s descriptive of his old friend. Somaia might object to this reference but the fishermen were in deed a well-suited and amiable pair, each enjoying the others company in all circumstance. “What I glean from the little we know of things in your covey I sense a trail of darkness that begins with the phrase, “The winds are very gentle and seem almost to be asleep else where.” “Freeilll Noa, how long has it been since the winds moved as they ought?” Freeilll took time to consider my mother’s question. My father rewound the cycles of `ole when he worked from the stump of palm reserved for his repairs and remembered the words shared between fisher folk. The utterances were as usual, a recounting of catches, prayers and promises exchanged signs of reef activity beyond the wall, usual fare. Nothing passed differently, except for the incident of balance for his young nephew Dontanea of Noa. “Four ‘ole cycles past something different did happen, and though no one paid it much heed perhaps …” My father’s voice trailed and instinctively he switched to silent transport and conned the incident in my mother’s direction. “Dontanea of Noa is one of our covey’s finest young fishermen. On the night of Mahealani Dontanea had reached his favorite netting spot on the far northern tip of the island chain.” My father paused to consider the detail he recounted, reserving the specific reef cropping unless asked. “Dontanea is a net fisherman and has precise and steady control on his balance and excellent perception of the ocean’s currents and movement. But on this night he told me a rogue wind blew from the south and sent him toppling off the reef, his net was torn loose and sank inordinately out of sight.” A fisherman’s nets are precious and not easily taken. The young fisherman’s story puzzled Freeilll Noa and when questioned, Dontanea could not explain the unexpected wind or the inability to reclaim his net. Shemaladia of Osprey listened for clues and breathed evenly as she considered. “Is your nephew recovered from the incident, fishing once again and no longer experiencing loss of balance?” “Yes, completely recovered.” “And his net, was that recovered … or replaced?” “The net was never found. His father my brother dove with his son to seek the net but nothing.” “So the young man now uses a second net to replace it and does so now?” “Yes, there is always a spare net, this one a net woven by his father Kaimalama Noa, my twin brother.”

Freeilll Noa considered the implication of these answers, and of course so had my mother. She had more questions. “Since that incident have the winds been …” Before she could finish my father finished for her. “The winds have been asleep elsewhere.” The winds of Ever have been known to take brief holiday, gathering energy or enjoying the company of a particularly delicious placement in the Cosmos. But those holidays are predicable and never long enough to cause harm. “When did you and Honu notice the ocean had become warmer than usual?” My father replied without hesitation, “The full moon following Dontanea’s fall.” Somaia and I were already in flight when Honu called from the black lava tide pools of her birth. Rarely will she summon, and never had Freeilll Noa been called to the Black Pool. “Mother, the night passes beautifully and always it is a pleasure to spend time with you. How does the night pass with you?” The elder of oceans was always pleased to hear her favorite grandson’s thoughts. Through the ages, turtles and birds have shared an uncommon bond and a coil of genes allowed a blend of heritage with a small band of Wood Crafters. Linked as they were by that gene, my father never questioned Honu. Few of the young Wood Crafters of the Islands remembered how the blood flowed or shared the common gene with turtle. To preserve their relationship and their connection, my father and my great-grandmother never referred to their kinship in the company of the covey, the exception was Somaia who knew everything about Freeill Noa. “The night passes beautifully for me as well grandson. What concerns me is the feel of the water beyond the reefs of this Black Pool. The ocean beyond the reefs is warm, warm enough to turn the limpid green limu yellow as if heated upon sun-baked rocks on a low-tide. The tide as you know is at full-flood. The winds from the north are absent, missing a better word. The surface water has remained unstirred for more than twelve sun rises.” “Missing? You believe the winds from the north are missing?” “That is why I have called you. Soon there will be more answers. Yet, before more answers there will be even more questions. An unlikely someone will aid you and there will be greater changes than the warmer ocean. Be prepared grandson.” My great-grandmother paused and took in the whole of my father’s being, embracing his soul she charged him with the love of all that has been and opened coils of his muscles with the power of unfoldings. With that done, Honu nudged at Freeill Noa’s chest looked once more into his eyes and retreated into the deep black pool.

Shemaladia was entranced. The teachings of a Grey were broad and unique to each strand of covey throughout Ever. Special connections such as Honu’s lineage with the Wood Crafter Noa were not unheard of, though it was truly uncommon. For a very long time my mother looked silently at the man whom destiny had selected as her mate. Freeill Noa accepted the long assessing look, assured in his soul, and appreciative of the magnificent being who would share the rest of his destiny. Shemaladia absorbed the outer look of Freeilll’s body beginning with the crown of feathers that grew tight almost scale-like against his broad high forehead. The tips of his ears rose from the feathers in sharp contrast to the bill that dropped from his face … a silvery spoon of a bill. She tried to imagine the twins who would come from their mating. Strong wing feathers and the broad chest of a Grey tapered to a narrow tail. His talons were exactly the same color as his bill with claws covered with the tightly grown scale-like feathers as on his head. By this time, my father could not resist being the one with questions, “Shemaladia of Osprey have you assessed to your satisfaction? Are there questions that go unanswered?” Without a skip of the heartbeat She asked, “How does your coil of the Honu remain with your physical body?” My father’s answer was quick; no hesitation passed as he lifted his wings and drew them forward. As if witnessing a magical conjuring Shemaladia watched as Freeilll Noa canted the words that shifted his wings into the great flippers that mark the ocean’s diver of the deep. The silent prayer converted my father’s physical being further as my mother watched in reverence; the swallow like ears compressed into barely visible orifice and the silver talons drew into body leaving each claw barely visible in artful camouflage available for grasping. “In this manifestation, my lungs which you cannot see without dissecting me or viewing with the eye of Ever, become those of my great mother. I am able to swim underwater leagues at a time on one breath and though I am not graced with a shell like the great mother, a Grey such as I will not loose body heat while submerged, the feathers of my body calcify like shell and protect me from the unpredictable, and the ears of re-known remain capable of hearing thoughts as well as song.” “Wonderful,” my mother said as she walked proudly into my father’s unfolding wings. Freeilll Noa of the Islands welcomed his destiny and they embraced for the very first time.

WOOD CRAFTING Installment 4 : Part I continues "Reassembling"

The eco-tale WOOD CRAFTING has begun to spin a whirl of characters in a setting that is the place called Ever. Inspired by the small act of entitlement ... a human woman's wish to have a bit of rusty treasure, this story considers just how much 'entitlement' human kind has assumed. Thus far, the story has introduced the beings called Wood Crafters an ancient race of beings who have watched the mortals from their wee places of covey and warrens. Not unlike any good fairy tale there are characters of fancy and purpose. Several have been introduced in the previous three installments: Shenia Wood, storyteller Shemaladia of Osprey, Grey Huntress of Loss Souls, (Shenia's mother), Freeilll Noa of the South, Grey Wood Crafter of the Islands (Shenia's Father), Oona of the Song, Somaia of the South ... and others.

The tale is really just begun with so many more threads to be wound and stitches to be made. This next part lays a bit of legacy a clue to the plot I suppose. "Reassembling ... a major theme is given some history with today's installment. Read the previous installments by linking here.

WOOD CRAFTING

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)

INSTALLMENT 4: "Reassembling"

The process of Reassembling is a tradition of longevity in the beliefs of Beings throughout Ever. Perhaps like the word used so frequently on the Great Planet today, Reassembling is a version of Recycling beliefs and attitudes that no longer served the original design of Creation. Bits of the original belief or attitude might have sustaining value. Rather than throw the whole kit and caboodle out, to become part of the Cosmic Heap, the wise Creators gave us the inspiration to simply reassemble and start again without too harsh a melt-down, if at all possible. Early in the history that I have learned to sing, the Reassembling involved the belief that loudness was power and domination simply a natural consequence of enveloping All. Loudness became the same as Most Feared and Most Feared became those in Control. Until, as the story grew, a very small being with ears nearly as large as his body, found no use for loud in any form.

It seems, in this early Reassembling, the small being with the very large ears happened upon a giant in the bottom of a very large hole. The hole was actually a pit the giant had dug weeks before, a trap for unsuspecting creatures who would become dinner or unwilling servants. Now, yes, this song is a very old one where Beings had not yet learned the civility of Wood Crafting today. What serves this story though is the process of reassembling beliefs that began with a very small being with ears nearly as large as his body finding no use for loud in any form. That night when the very small being with ears nearly as large as his body happened upon the giant at the bottom of the very large hole, it was the sound of the giant’s very loud voice that rattled the mouse from her warren not from the ditch.

“Aaaaaahhhhhhh. GET ME OUT,” the giant bellowed. Over and over again the giant bellowed “Aaaaaahhhh. GET ME OUT.” No one came near, fearing for their safety all being simply closed down their hatches, dug deeper into their burrows, flew off for higher limbs. But no one came near, no one came to help. The moon was nearly full that night when the giant fell into the hole that he had dug for creatures smaller than he, a trap. He was caught in a trap of his own making. By the time the moon had risen to her full height, Mosea, the mouse had had just about enough of the loud. To be truthful, her ears had begun to ring so loudly, the giant’s bellows were now not nearly as loud as the ringing in her ears. From the edge of the pitch Mosea leaned over to speak to the giant. Now this had never happened in any night in memory, but this is the way I was taught to remember it. Mosea, the mouse at her loudest had a voice that was barely a breeze to the ears of a giant as big as Geoff the Grand. “You have frightened the beings of All from you, Geoff the Grand. No one will come near. No one will help you. What good is your loudness now? Can you hear me?” At first, Geoff the Grand heard nothing but his own loud voice. Mosea, the mouse repeated, “You have frightened the beings of All from you, Geoff the Grand. No one will come near. No one will help you. What good is your loudness now? Can you hear me?” This time, the giant thought he heard squeaks and noticed two round red eyes looking down at him from the edge of the hole. Instead of bellowing again, Geoff the Grand stopped, and was silent. Mosea repeated her cant.

This time Geoff the Grand, who was actually the son of a once kindly pair, softened with the silence. The gentle voice of Mosea the mouse touched a place within him that was cold as ice crystal. With each moment of silence the giant’s heart warmed and began beating radiant beams of light throughout his great body. Mosea’s small red eyes watched, her nose and whiskers twitched as if tracking a piece of prized morsel. After what seemed an eternity, Geoff the Grand was now aglow from the top of his bright red head to the boots of his enormous feet. Instead of loud words chiseled into the space of Ever, the giant conned a plea of help in the direction of the hole’s edge. Without the slightest utterance Mosea felt Geoff the Grand in her own heart, “I am in trouble friend. I will need your help to get out of this hole. Is there a stout rope or vine strong enough and long enough on which I could climb? Please help me.” Mosea the mouse knew exactly what she would do.

The trees of the ancient Banyan hung thick with air roots the thickness of which could easily allow Geoff the Grand to climb. With no wasted motion, Mosea crossed the dark wood and tapped at the base of one such ancient Banyan. She explained the unlikely circumstances and since Banyan was a being nearly as old as time itself, the story amused the great tree and permission was granted. “Thank you kind one. Please draw in your light as I cut through the limb of your powerful root.” Mosea scaled the largest of air roots and gnawed expertly when she felt the Banyan’s light drawn from the root. The root fell with a thunderous collapse. Now the question of how to get the root to the pit was the challenge. By this time, the beings of the Wood had awakened to Mosea’s situation. The colonies of Ants came to Mosea and without being asked, thousands of tiny Ants slipped under the length of root and lifted the great weight to the edge and over the side of the hole. Aina the young golden owl, who in normal circumstances would view Mosea as a tasty snack, knew tonight was not a normal night. From her home in the heights of the cedar bows the owl caught hold of the end of the air root and circled that end to the trunk of the Banyan, knotting it expertly to secure the root.

The heavy air root arrived at Geoff the Grand’s boots; the one thousand ants crawled from under and waited for the giant to grab hold. When Geoff’s two enormous hands had firm grip, the ants clambered quickly and silently to the edge, a signal for the Banyan to stand firm her ground. Mosea spoke down to Geoff, “Now we are ready for you,” is all she said. Hand over fist Geoff slowly pulled his great weight from the bottom of the pit. His muscles strained to hoist his bulk from the hole, but he was agile and well muscled, and with the air root firmed wrapped around the Banyan’s trunk Geoff was quickly top-side.

The whole of the Wood waited at the rim of the big pit. Mosea was the first to speak as Geoff heaved his big black boots over the sides and rolled the rest of him to the sweet wood’s floor. “You have been Reassembled Geoff the Grand. Tonight is a very good night for All.” Geoff’s heart beat hard and clear, the beings of the Wood could hear the sound and felt it equally as well. It was a deep sound, a rich sound and from that night forward it was the loudest sound anyone would hear from the giant. The grand giant had lost his voice and found his heart.