We have been to town, Belfaire to be exact. The nearest town to our spot on the Ledge is about 12 miles away. There we get a glimpse and a reminder of the civilization that is Humanity. We turn on our cellphones ... and they work. Together we admit it will be fun to be closer to the sources of city life for a time. The risks of exposures increase when we think about being in a city, but we so would like to participate in community without such long drives to get it. So, the prayers for 'right place, right space' have begun and we say them outloud and silently throughout a common day.
While in town and while on the drive home we were met by the beings who are not human. Instead, while sitting in the parking lot eating greasy chicken Pete started tossing the crusty chicken skins to his kin the crows. They came at first in pairs and then, there were four. We can not load pictures we take to our blogs ... memory or space problems here on the blog??? We aren't sure. So, I've found goggled photos to fill in. A particularly old and knobby kneed bugger caught Pete's eye ... a crow of character ... like attracting like, hmmmmm.
Also while in town munching chicken and feeding crows I found a message from my son. The package we'd sent to him three days ago arrived. Oh how I do love received parcels. Don't you? The message was sparkly, and just the sort of message you want to hear. The little things we had sent were just the thing to make his day. It just doesn't get much better I say. Small, valuable simple acts that keep a body connected with another body. Email is okay, but a package in the snail mail with fun stuff is just old-fashioned comfort.
And then on the way home and just rounding the edge of the lake (I was driving), I said to Pete, "There's a turtle on the edge of the road." "Stop the car. We have to put him back." Pete leapt from the passenger's seat and ambled back. I watched for cars and watched him in the rear view mirror, saw him stoop to pick the turtle up. The turtle being was pretty large for a lake turtle. It fills Pete's hand and more. "He was heading into the road." "I know." "Gotta put him in ..." "Where?" "Over the edge of the bank." "Yeh, it's his place right here." Pete climbed and then nearly slipped over the side. Turtle definitely wanted out of Pete's hand.
Before Turtle left us Pete turned him over to look at his under-belly. Beautiful! Red and golden bottom and such artistry in design. I didn't know what kind of turtle he is. So I searched and searched and maybe Turtle was a Red-earred Slider. Maybe. Well, that's the picture that most looked like our Turtle pal who was oh-so-close to being squished by the weekend boater folks. Hope you have a good old time in the Lake, Turtle. Beautiful, beautiful, turtle.
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)
Secrets Revealed
Somaia thought he was the first to wake, but found Oona already tending to the business of food.The songstress and my mother had two large squirming trout in their crescent beaks.Oona made her offering of thanks to the fish and quickly pierced the flesh of its belly to feed the twins who were ready for the fresh meat.Shemaladia halved her trout and took the head and eyes for herself, leaving the sweet belly and tail for her love still asleep.Somaia relished the entrails of the trout, noting Freeilll was still worn from the evening’s doings he moved to Shemaladia’s side.“I am not unaware of how my size aids in the solving of our problem.In my covey I am a dwarf among the giant birds. Greys are often triple my height and children often cast a long shadow over me by their tenth cycle. If my warming had been one fraction less than it had been, my disposition and balance with the All could have been different. The journey to a satisfied soul is different for every being.I am blessed with the grace of patience just as spider is patient.The webs I spin are equally as fragile and easily swept away.My twins, two beautiful girls were poisoned by the yellow air of mortals at war with one another.The mustard air filled All with a wind that suffocated every pair of twin girls alive in the covey.The male babies weakened and some grew oddly shaped wings and tail feathers that dropped prematurely.Mates and elders were also made ill by the yellow air concocted we were told by mortals called ‘scientists and chemists’.Few of the mates and elders died, though many lost their souls.”Shemaladia listened to the small bird’s story.It was an infrequent telling she knew the preciousness of the tale and was honored to be witness.Her large eyes glistened with tears.She did not hide the tears that fell.She wept.“My mate was Toma.The deaths turned my beautiful Toma to stone. Graced with the tenderness of eternal child-like innocence Toma could not release the hold of sadness she felt.There were not enough tears to soothe her pain, and no stories calmed her grief.Within two cycles her soul had hardened, her grace went to the depths of the Pond of Ever, and her body became stone.”In the songs of our coveys throughout the Cosmos we know stone or in Somaia’s language pohaku to be ancestors.Shemaladia of Osprey rocked with the motion of wordless comfort as Somaia finished.“These two shiny orange stones carry the soul and the sorrow Toma could no longer bare in her physical self.When she left the body I drew from my own chest the gold filigree reserved for Reassemblage. From each stone I connected a length of golden filigree twice as long as the stone itself.When placed in the hands of a mortal, a woman graced as a Sensitive and worn from her ears, my Toma will finally be reunited with her soul.Satisfied and freed of her sorrow.” Somaia untied a satchel of sennit that hung across his chest.Two tiny bright orange stones dangled from golden filigree.Earrings a mortal woman might call ‘beautiful.’“Use them to set things right Shemaladia of Osprey.It is time.”
Shemaladia was a hunter of lost souls, and knew the countless ways a soul is lost.The stories of the journey never made her grace as hunter less painful.She was skilled at guarding her coil from leaks and prayed the prayers of compassion to surround the telling.“Let me feel.Let me not feel.”The cant was ancient and simple, profound and vital. All hunters were trained to care without becoming undone.Hooded as they were with the braid of Osprey, they were able to do the hunting and the healing.Still, the work was always a time of weeping.Shemaladia turned to the red-feathered Wood Craft and enveloped his small frame with her great wings.Somaia did not resist or expect any less from the huntress. He knew the power of her grace and knew too, the telling was too long untold.The embrace could have been an instant or a cycle of sunrise and sunset.When it ended the earrings were gone.
Freeilll Noa woke to see his old friend emerge from the circle of Shemaladia’s silver wings.Shemaladia of Osprey’s large golden eyes still wet with tears bent to meet Somaia’s eyes.“Thank you Somaia of the South.Your story has been told, and it has been heard.”Glenda and Glennis were now fully awake, well-fed. To Somaia the twins sang, “Uncle is it time to ride the Makani, time to ride the winds?”The adults had been busy with things adults do while the twin girls notice all things at once.Glenda and Glennis seemed to be the only ones who remembered why they were here on the edge of the vast watery gorge.Freeilll looked curiously at the twins and then heard the sound … blowing winds. Makani rose from the gorge pulling with him a bulging long tail of stars encased with the net lost to Dontanea.Reef polyps of un-named colors, fish of blue, bright red and stripes of yellow all rode the current like rocketing comets.Shemaladia turned to look at my father.“Now it is your turn to use the power of words.Silent or out loud, it will not matter.Secrets revealed.
Yesterday (Monday) I posted a "Closing Soon" article over on Kolea Nani (the mobile bird)... if you are interested in reading what I had to say about maintaining that blog click here. There's a very thoughtful comment from Liberty that is being taken to heart. Thanks, Liberty
Even though we cannot see clearly how it's going to turn out, we are still called to let the future into our imagination. -Joanna Macy
We're big on dreams. Pete and I look at each other a lot, and say stuff like, "Who woulda dreamed?" Well, the truth is we have dreamed this life up and the price we pay for being on the cutting edge or living life on the ledge is we must as Joanna Macy said, 'let the future into our imagination.'
It's a new MONday, a new week begins and a simple practice continues with gratitude and appreciation to open up the future yet to be. Here are 10 things in my life for which I give thanks:
1. Thanks for the possibilities of collaboration in Oregon.
2. Thanks for the internet that allows me access to a virtual and possible in-the-flesh community.
3. Thanks for misunderstandings that clear up.
4. Thanks for slow yet real reconnections.
5. Thanks for avocado and tomato sandwiches (ymmmmmy!)
6. Thanks for kitty kisses.
7. Thanks for volunteer potato plants in bloom in the compost. (lucky food)
8. Thanks for the oodles of frogs that come to be with us on the sink, in the garden on the table.
9. Thanks for late bloomers.
10. Thanks for Pete.
What are the things and who are the people on your thank you list?
We have a bit of time left here on the Ledge ... a little bit of time to figure out where next we move, a little time to contemplate and meditate the reality of a not for sure sorta world/whirl that is the now we live.
Yesterday I went across the driveway to the Big House, inviting our friends to come on down for brunch on the steps of our VardoForTwo. They've never been down to the Ledge (technically their ledge) for a shared meal, and before you know it ... these two old dears will be ... well, some where different. I talked about the upcoming scouting trip Pete and I are planning, a trip to explore winter encampment with or near-by other folks who live with multiple chemical sensitivities. Our plan is to head a bit south to Oregon. Two places are possible, and the only way to know is to check first. And then, the reality of the 'there' will present itself.
It's been a steep learning curve for our friends ... they had no real idea what its like to live with this illness, and we had no idea what it is like for them to live with Parkinson's. We've learned some since we parked ourselves here on the Ledge. We've learned it takes more time and more patience to live compassionately in the real discomfort of a changing reality.
I know the upcoming changes and the movin' on has us stirred up. Pete and I are waking up early in the morning with those thoughts that wait to beckon you from sleep. The stars are always there to speak up ... so separately we climb from the futon, fumble in the dark across the tile floor and step onto the porch for time with the celestial navigation system. Almost without exception ... no, that would be without exception the Pleiades (the Seven Sisters) the constellation long used for trans-ocean voyagers is just above the curved dome of the vardo. Navigating and translating the signs, the writing on the wall, the bits of sky that have fallen are all valuable tools to include in a modern journey.
And what else is valuable on these modern journeys? Good sturdy shoes. (Thanks for that Jilly. Thanks once again Elsa for sharing the soap box for these modern times.)
How do you navigate and translate the signs on your journey?
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)
The Kalahari Bushmen have said ...
"A story is like the wind. It comes from a far-off place, and we feel it."
A puzzle unravels
My father and mother released one another in the glow that rises from an embrace of destiny.The re-doubled grace of a pair of Grey from opposite ends of the Cosmology opened knowing neither being could contain separately.“Freeilll Noa,” my mother said, “Tell me about your twin.”It seemed a cycle since the two had begun their courtship.In truth no more than a fourth moon rise had passed.My father began but before the telling ended, the latest of unexpected sights filled my parents’ eyes.From the place they stood, the shore was several minutes’ flight away.What seemed like newly rising mountains rose in the waters just beyond the reef.Leviathan, dozens of them linked forehead to tail.There was great excitement and awe from the covey limbs.No one in memory of Wood Crafters had ever seen the whales in this count and so near the shore.Freeilll and Shemaladia were the first to meet the ancestors.“Great mother, great grand mother, great, great father.Welcome you are, welcome you are.”“And to you Freeilll Noa and Shemaladia of Osprey we are thankful for your greeting.There is a promise broken a secret kept that must be mending before it is too late for all coveys throughout Ever.Count the reef outcropping and feel the loss of wind on your feathers.Where both reef and wind be … there is the secret-place. No blame, no wrong.A destiny grown without knowing, two beings one a very small creature, the other grand now need understanding.Seek the twin of Freeilll Noa his agreement needs to be set right.”Without another word the sea filled with the whales and mountainous peaks disappeared as quickly as they had risen.
A very small creature …
A promise broken …
A secret kept …
Count the reef outcroppings
Secret-place…
Missing pieces …
Set to right…
No blame…
No wrong…
“Count the reef outcroppings” was the only clue with no riddle attached.Throughout the telling of Island memory the reef could be counted without error.Each cycle added twelve new outcroppings, one outcropping with each new moon.A thousand cycles could be recalled and throughout the constellation the Seven Sisters actually included 12,000 outcroppings or stars in your vocabulary.To count all the stars Shemaladia and Freeilll enlisted the help of their sidekicks and confidants, Oona of the Song and Somaia of the South.Oona and Somaia listened to the tale and knew they would include the twin fairies Glenda and Glennis in the counting.Among the six star-counters Glenda and Glennis were the only true fairies, they would begin at the stars farthest away leaving a trail of dust to mark the count.Oona and Somaia started mid-way between Northern tip and South Point, and counted away from each other.Freeilll Noa started at the beginning, the Northern tip.Shemaladia of Osprey circled high above hunting the cosmos for the scent of a lost soul.
The counting lasted until the first light of the sun.Physically exhausted from the maneuver, the small band met as agreed at the sands fronting the Black Pool where Honu quietly waited.All but Shemaladia arrived almost simultaneously.Oona served as recorder.The twins counted 3,444 stars.Oona and Somaia counted 4,000 combined.Freeill Noa also counted 4,000 stars.11,444 stars.556 reef outcroppings, 556 stars with polyps of times gone and yet to be were missing.The riddle suggested wind and polyps would be found together.Though a distance too far for Osprey to hear, both Freeilll and Somaia tuned to the shrill call from my mother Shemaladia.The two Islanders rose from the sand and followed the shrill call, “Kreeilll …..”In a pocket of the cosmos hidden from view of both Islander and Osprey, Shemaladia had followed a thin trail of darkness visible only to a hunter of lost souls.There in a hollow the size of a pit a giant might have gouged out Shemaladia hovered above a sight that once again stunned the Wood Crafters from North and South.Polyps of colors un-nameable danced in the current blown by the doting winds Makani.Among the stars and polyps were bits of wood embedded into the calcified walls of the reef.Life as tiny as pin tips grew invisible to most eyes.It was the fairies who noticed the very small creatures clinging silently to the bits of wood woven tightly into the calcified walls of the reef.Barnacles, the oceans filtration system destined to survive by clinging.“Could that be the piece missing from this whole adventure?”Freeilll Noa could only guess.
Honu had observed it all from birth to star-counting.From a lip under her shell she pulled bits of small ocean buffed stones, pohaku, bits of limu dried on the sandy shores of the ocean and a bit of wood with a small creature who once clung to it … a creature still living rather than dead.“These are the remains of your birth nest Freeilll, unknown to both your parents, that barnacle is now part of your twin.What could have been grace was a secret; a secret hides from the light and twists rather than soars.Reveal the secret and things change yet again. It is time to make it right.”The old turtle read the thoughts streaming from the team of beings assembled at the edge of the vast hole.“No, it is not my place to do the corrections.Among you the answers will unfold.Include all that each of you knows and dream a future that fills Ever.WHAT Ever is precisely the question.
Oona and her twins huddled against a smooth ledge, the girls tired from their night’s adventure.Somaia joined them and soon Glennis had climbed onto the old red bird’s chest where she fell soundly to sleep.Glenda tried blinking the sleepiness from her eyes until at last her eyes would blink no more.Somaia carefully tucked the little fairy asleep on his lap under one wing.With his free wing he pulled sennit from his chest.Nimble and practiced, his one wing’s feathers worked as fingers to weave net.When the net was hammock size, he found loose rocks large enough to anchor both ends of the net.The twins fit snuggly into the net and slept.Honu disappeared as she had appeared … without effort.Sleep was what all four Wood Crafters needed.Using the two large boulders as perches they tucked in their heads and sank into the deep sleep of weariness vacant of dreams.
Pete and I have just gotten back from a walk in the wind. Though it's tough to see the tips of the firs dancing, trust me on this one, they are doing a real jig-ggity-jig. The air is filled with freshness, needles from the trees rain down, sprinkle the sunflower butter on my toast, and the squirrel across the ravine is throwing pine cones off a 100 foot Tall One. The seasons have come and gone here on the Ledge. A new story is stirring up with makani (the wind) and the walk we took was just the sort of thing that records gratitude and appreciation where it needs to go.
In a stretch of one Earth's year, the wind plays through the Ledge on a regular basis. Our friend Mel has known this place most of his life and always notices when the winds have gone missing. It is this sort of noticing that influences the itch that the writer in me feels. The Japanese have a way of looking at this itch. They might call it saku-taku-no-ki.(click on that link for what author Jane Yolen has to say about this 'itch.') A mother hen taps on an egg. The chick taps from within. The moment the two tappings come together is "no ki." There is new life.I notice what a friend has noticed for a lifetime ... and with that a bit of a story takes on a life of its own.
That is what has happened over and over during the months we have lived here on the Ledge. The tale, fable, fairy tale called Wood Crafting that I share with our readers was born from the wind ... a timeless carrier of story. Today Pete and I took time to appreciate the place this wind has called home for a length of time into history. We have found one place on Earth where the modern nomad can find refuge on most days and nights, and when the winds return to sing through the trees this place is indeed a sacred portal into the EVER.
I was ready for a walk in the wind after working with no small degree of difficulty on a eulogy for our cousin. Her service will happen back on Oahu in early September. Pete and I will not be able to fly back to be with family and friends for that celebration. Instead, a few words I have strung together from this ledge in the woods will be spoken by yet another cousin. In my view the eulogy is a stringing together of lei (a garland) story. Solace and comfort come from being able to kokua (help) in this meaningful way. Finding the message from the muse for this assignment seemed difficult because I was trying to speak for all those who will be there, gathered on Oahu. Today, when the wind finally returned I realized the only words I could really share were the words that came from my heart. At least that's what I heard the wind say as it sang through the woods.
Since every particle in your body goes back to the first flaring forth of space and time, you're really as old as the universe. So when you are lobbying at your congressperson's office, or visiting your local utility, or testifying at a hearing on nuclear waste, or standing up to protect an old grove of redwoods, you are doing that not out of some personal whim, but in the full authority of your 15 billions years.
-Joanna Macy describing the "Personal Guidelines for the Great Turning"
A few years ago my friend Shirley sent me a book called TWO OLD WOMEN written by Velma Wallis. Pete and I were living in Hilo on the island of Hawaii at the time. We had just sold my family home in Kuliouou Valley ... one of the many tough decisions that have made during a transit of morphing realities. I remember reading this beautiful re-telling of a traditional First People's tale about changing realities, resiliency and internal compasses. The book tells of a time in the life of a nomadic people who make tough decisions. Two old women, the oldest crones of the tribe are left behind to fend for themselves during a particularly gruesome winter. The tale that unfolds speaks of the memory that will not break in those two women ... the memory that turns life around, transforms the dark.
I have kept that little book among the few books that continue to travel with me. At the moment it is actually inside the Big House across the driveway ... nearby, it sparks that internal compass within me as Pete and I prepare once again for a move. Since the first reading of TWO OLD WOMEN, these two old dears have traversed islands, boarded planes and wandered aimlessly and than with aim trying to understand the condition of both my sensitive body and mind ... and the condition of the Earth's sensitive reality.
I found another 'old woman' who is helping me to view the nature of Earth sensitivity and what I can do about it. She is Joanna Macy. Rather than attempt to describe her I have included links to her website and post a bit of her working philosophy called the "Great Turning." This environmental illness I live with makes sense to me only when I step into a greater view. Perhaps this will help you make sense of the nonsense ...
Come from Gratitude To be alive in this beautiful, self-organizing universe--to participate in the dance of life with senses to perceive it, lungs that breathe it, organs that draw nourishment from it--is a wonder beyond words. Gratitude for the gift of life is the primary wellspring of all religions, the hallmark of the mystic, the source of all true art. Furthermore, it is a privilege to be alive in this time when we can choose to take part in the self-healing of our world.
Don't be Afraid of the Dark This is a dark time, filled with suffering and uncertainty. Like living cells in a larger body, it is natural that we feel the trauma of our world. So don't be afraid of the anguish you feel, or the anger or fear, for these responses arise from the depth of your caring and the truth of your interconnectedness with all beings. To suffer with is the literal meaning of compassion.
Dare to Vision Out of this darkness a new world can arise, not to be constructed by our minds so much as to emerge from our dreams. Even though we cannot see clearly how it's going to turn out, we are still called to let the future into our imagination. We will never be able to build what we have not first cherished in our hearts..
Roll up your Sleeves Many people don't get involved in the Great Turning because there are so many different issues, which seem to compete with each other. Shall I save the whales or help battered children? The truth is that all aspects of the current crisis reflect the same mistake, setting ourselves apart and using others for our gain. So to heal one aspect helps the others to heal as well. Just find what you love to work on and take joy in that. Never try to do it alone. Link up with others; you'll spark each others' ideas and sustain each others' energy..
Act your Age Since every particle in your body goes back to the first flaring forth of space and time, you're really as old as the universe. So when you are lobbying at your congressperson's office, or visiting your local utility, or testifying at a hearing on nuclear waste, or standing up to protect an old grove of redwoods, you are doing that not out of some personal whim, but in the full authority of your 15 billions years.
to JT ... yes, some old treasures (recognize it?) still travel with us
THANK YOU MAHALO
Every week during the months of building VardoForTwo, I wrote a "Dream Coming True" post. As a commitment to the faith we had that it was possible to go from living a life of Diaspora to living in a wee home on wheels, I dreamed of a new life. Step by tiny step we imagined the look, feel and materials that would work as an MCS-safe haven. Those posts document the reality of months of hard work, perseverance and resilience. Sometimes, looking back we forget just how far we have come. The dream come true: an MCS-safe haven inside the walls of our tiny home gives us luxurious sleep, a quiet and gentle on the soul retreat and a base for life on Earth that changes. We are not part of the collective that is settled upon a foundation firm and fixed. Our two wheels and the portable porch tag us as 'campers', nomads, and wanderers.
For five months now we have made a life on the ledge in the woods sharing the Earth with two friends who are settled on this stretch of the planet. We have adjusted and adjusted to the changeable nature of a whirl that could be toxic to us with a flick of a washing machine, barbeque, clothes drier or herbicide spray. The journey is difficult sometimes, the resources for support require constant updating, and the educational process is on-going. Would I change the journey if I could? Hmmm...sure, I'd love to live a life without the near constant alert that comes from being sensitive to chemicals and fragrances that tamper with my body, mind and spirit. And yet, it is these sensitivities that keep me intimate with exactly what ALL of NATURE and EARTH experiences constantly.
In preparation for the New Moon coming up Thursday, August 20th, I'm writing a Dream Coming True and Appreciation Post ... an affirmation and creative intention filled with GRACE.
These are 10 things I appreciate today:
1. I appreciate the hum of the air filter. 2. I appreciate the delicious salmon dinner cooked in our toast oven and hot plate. 3. I appreciate the conversation I had with my old friend just before dusk. 4. I appreciate the fullness of life on the Ledge with ALL her beings ... frogs, bees, ants, birds, trees, wind, stars, fairies and stories. 5. I appreciate the resiliency of my relationship with Pete. 6. I appreciate the willingness of our land-sharing friends. 7. I appreciate the depth of my faith. 8. I appreciate the hot showers at night. 9. I appreciate the quiet here. 10. I appreciate Pete.
With the up-coming New Moon energy I intent and embrace the best possible outcomes for a continuing co-operative life with people and planet as we DREAM a life of Grace. The quote I used from K Lauren de Boer's essay "Gateways to Grace" is worth repeating. It is what I intend to embrace as the season on the ledge draws to a close (at least for the next little while).
Grace is not a static ideal to be attained, but an active event of enormous transformation and significance. I like to think of grace as the experience of previously unrealized forms of elegance that arise in response to crisis. In that arising, all those involved are transformed. In moments of grace, new forms are churned into being out of chaos.
thanks, Lauren for a wonderful look at amazing grace
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)
Grace is not a static ideal to be attained, but an active event of enormous transformation and significance. I like to think of grace as the experience of previously unrealized forms of elegance that arise in response to crisis. In that arising, all those involved are transformed. In moments of grace, new forms are churned into being out of chaos.
-from the essay "Gateways to Grace" by K. Lauren de Boer, used with permission from the author
Kaimalama Noa
Twin off-springs are graced with nearly equal talents, memories and physical form.As in all Creation though, no two Any are precisely replicated.It simply was neither possible nor desirable.Creation is all about the Many variations and combinations of light and dark, smooth and rough, known and unknown, small and grand and on and on.The delight of Creation lives in the art of becoming.Wood Crafters are one of a billion forms of becoming, and in my life as a song teller, the memory of my parents’ first adventure as sleuths in a Cosmos when winds went missing exemplifies Variation.
Kaimalama Noa is my uncle, twin brother to my father and father to twins Dontanea and Ane`e.I know this story is birthing characters like bubbles blown from a human child’s wand.Fret not dear readers and listeners by the time my story is done the names will be as comfortable as fleece.Kaimalama like my father Freeilll was graced as Grey in their covey of the Islands.Grey are the beings that invite a blending factor in a covey’s history, seasoned with the possibilities of something yet to be like mixing total darkness with complete light. These two brothers were warmed not in tree top as was my mother and her sister.Coveys of Wood Crafters on islands such as the Seven Sisters are often cave dwelling beings with nests made from small ocean buffed stones, pohaku, bits of limu dried on the sandy shores of the ocean and emptied shells that no longer housed living folk.Like all twins the memories of All that has been and the visions of things to come were poured into Freeilll and Kaimalama Noa.Every nuance of care was given equally and the destiny unique for each brother found a place within the coils of the growing babes.Parenting is the most important life of a Wood Crafter, preserving and ensuring the health of two new to the covey, the ultimate reward of life. A hundred cycles is a very long time to live by your Great Planet standards, and yet for a Wood Crafter, it is at that time many Wood Crafters begin there destiny – mating and warming a brood of two.
Though all the care in the Cosmos was taken and intention blessed with clarity, a very tiny over-sight took place in the building of their nest.A bit of drift wood no bigger than a blink was woven into the bowl of the nest just beneath Kaimalama Noa’s violet shell.Over the ninety moon risings and sunsets, a very tiny barnacle unseen in the process of nest building, grew from the surface of the tiny bit of driftwood as well.The unsuspecting Wood Crafters had collected a living creature and brought it into the mix of warming.The short version of a story that will reveal itself further as the song is told, is this:Kaimalama Noa and that barnacle become intimately coiled and during the soft shell stages of growing into a Wood Crafter my uncle had also absorbed the memory of a being whose destiny was to cling to survive.
The brothers grew strong and graceful as young Grey.Their places in the covey were never entitlements they were poured with equal stores of humility as well as pride.Soon after the full moon of his eightieth cycle when Kaimalama Noa’s son Dontanea was beginning to spin nets and fly with his father on short journeys, Kaimalama Noa began hiding part of his catch.In a cave known only to him, Freeilll Noa’s twin began a cache of the most prized fish:The striped red, a pair of candle nose, a long tailed pirate fish. He was careful to take one or two fish at first.And yet, the horde of precious fish grew and the cave filled to capacity.“Hording” or taking more than was needed for one day’s eating was unheard of in the covey of Noa.There was no need, there was always plenty because no more than was necessary was the Creators’ agreement.
One agreement un-kept can be forgiven.One agreement un-kept for cycles on end changes things.Kaimalama Noa’s cave of hording had begun to change things.His secret began to change his temperament first.His mate Leyla noticed how his laughter no longer filled the shoreline.She questioned him when a small debate about tides and kapu turned him red-faced and angry when ordinarily, a debate was usually an invitation to a very good time.“What was that about?Since when does a question about tides send you into such a fury?”Leyla Noa could charm the scales off a cod fish, and had a way of softening Kaimalama like no one else.The fact that his mate felt the need to cajole him from his disposition alarmed him.Somaia of the South had questioned the change in direction for the up-coming netting.Kaimalama was forced to make changes to the netting.The secret cave had grown to nearly triple the size of his original cache, and to expand the cave meant tampering with the shape and fittings of the reef.“It’s really nothing.Somaia is getting old and losing his feel for the way tides move with the season.I should have answered him with more grace.That is something I can do.”The explanation seemed to satisfy Leyla and relieved Kaimalama.That was just the beginning though, one secret, a small lie, a cover-up.
By the time Dontanea perched himself with his small-eyed net that full moon cycle just passed, the changes to the reef had become noticeable perhaps not to the eye, but most certainly to the claw.A fisherman’s footing is sure based on the familiar lay of reef under his talon.Like a blind one maneuvering in darkness all the time, a fisherman with net will trust his throw to his footing.Unbeknown to all but the twin who had internalized the destiny of a barnacle, the reef’s changes were throwing more than this son into an ocean of change.“Makani!” The polyps of the reef shouted from the outcroppings throughout the wall of the Seven Sisters."Kaimalama Noa has taken thousands of our kind into a cave beyond our calling.They cannot hear us, and they cannot call to us.Fish families are missing their kin as well, and it is not to the feeding that loss has come.They have received no prayers in exchange for lives.Their kin are simply missing, just as ours are.”The winds Makani are inseparable companions to the ancient polyps of the Cosmos reefs.They were among the first birthed and named and on that night of the full moon Dontanea’s slip was a claw placed onto what ought to have been a familiar hold.The rogue wind was in reality, a gasp, an inhalation when the winds turned to seek the polyps taken without permission.
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.
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Honu the Old
Deep in the piko of Ever, Honu the Old dove through the dark umbilical cord of Creation to the place she knew she would find Leviathan.Settling onto a stretch of glistening sands surrounded by sheer cliffs Honu reached the reef walls of the ancient birthing place…The beginning. Polyps in colors un-nameable breathed from the jagged out-croppings.The polyps were the first and yet they remain still as sentinels to this place where the great whales birth and pass, birth and pass.The sand was a resting place for Honu, when she settled onto the smooth granules huge air bubbles rose from her mouth and surrounded her.The dive is fathoms deep, and at her advanced years, it tires her to make the journey.“Friend, you have come a long way.Always welcome.Always welcome.Have you answers or questions?Answers or questions?”The ancient ones came together, bumped foreheads in greeting and enjoyed a delicious meal of krill and limu after which Honu told the story of Reassembling taking place above water in the Coveys.“The Northern star dwellers have laid trail to the South and as we conjured, the two called Freeilll and Somaia are now within moon risings of their destiny.Fairy dust and fairy making have birthed two brilliant magicians.They are called Glenda and Glennis.Somaia has spun the pearl head-dresses and each child beams the light from atop their golden heads.Somaia of the South has begun the transformation and ought to be fully red of feathers by the time Mahina is full.”Leviathan smiled and asked, “The great son, your punahele, our favorite, has he embraced the songstress with the body of your coil, your lineage?”“He has indeed.”The two benevolent conspirators knew the final piece of the mystery would unfold quickly.The consequences of a melded birth would present itself before long.“The water continues to warm and the fry are still without ears and exceptionally large eyes,” Honu conned in her old friend’s direction.“Time is still on the side of destiny,” Leviathan replied.“Has the song huntress asked her questions?”“All but the last of them,” Honu revealed.“Then the Reassembling proceeds in excellent course.”
We used to have two goats when I lived in Mukilteo, about twenty miles north of Seattle. We lived in a place called 'Smuggler's Gulch.' The acre of land we perched on (oh, oh ... is there a pattern to my choices, unconscious until this moment?) was high bank land overlooking the Northern Pacific railroad tracks and just beyond the big broad Puget Sound stretched north and south. Across the Sound was Whidbey Island. The goats "Rainer" (the white and black one) and "Rasputin" (the dark black and brown haired, kinda stinky guy) were my son's. The goats were penned along the hill-side sharing the land with our pot-bellied pig Kalua. I hadn't thought of the goats for a while and then the other day a story out of North Carolina caught my attention. Wow, some good things are being dreamed up in North Carolina. First there was Leslie's Donkey Dreaming and then this ...
Why Goats?
Goats love to eat, and they do so 8-12 hours a day.
Goats are browsers by nature and prefer to nibble on a wide variety of plants.
Goats are quiet and won't disturb your neighbors.
Goats don't burn fossil fuels, and their only emissions are natural fertilizers.
Goats are non-toxic and pose no threat to the water supply
Watching goats eat is an excellent form of meditation
THE GOAT PATROL ... definitely something we ought to know about!
"Goat Patrol is an environmentally sustainable landscape management business owned and operated by Alix Bowman. Ms. Bowman focused on entrepreneurship at Carnegie Mellon University's Tepper School of Business with the goal of starting a sustainable business." -from the website The Goat Patrol
I read through the website and all the while I thought about Rainier and Rasputin grazing the hillside down to the nubs, while our pig Kalua rooted around them. As my son reminded me when we chatted this morning talking about the goats, "They'll eat everything!" And that's the thing that made reading about The Goat Patrol such a kick. Ms. Bowman targets and managed the area in need of 'weed whacking.' She supplies the flexible fencing to keep the goats where they are wanted as munchers and has a goat-herder on site to keep watch on the munching machines. The website is easy to use, friendly, and a visitor to the site whether potential customer or lurker will learn a lot. There's a tab on the site where the individual goats are named and personalized.
This is the sort of action that makes me smile. There are smart, resourceful, earth-wise folks doing wonderful things and we need to know about them! The organization Beyond Pesticides held a recent conference in the town near The Goat Patrol and that in itself is another bit of the wonderful-things-we-out-to-know about. Between donkeys and goats the whirl could become a lot less complicated again. It takes time to become less complicated, like Leslie (of the donkey dream!) said "It takes time to learn how to do things simple." She's right and maybe that's just a great way to spend the time we have.
Cocooned in my wheelie home, I'm seeking out the good energy a Scorpio like me needs. If there is anything Scorpio seeks instinctively it is ENERGY. When I was a very young woman the only thing I knew about the 'Scorpian" energy was the deadliness of the stinger ... and though I knew it was true I hid the sting perhaps in truth I knew too much about the harshness learned too early in my childhood . Later I discovered the dual nature of Scorpio ... that there was the Phoenix nature ... with the ability to 'rise from the ashes.' I have lived that part of a Scorpio's nature more times than I'd like. At another time I remember reading that the Scorpio was the only sign of the zodiac that had a Three-Totem nature that included: Scorpion/Eagle/Phoenix. Again, I could relate to the three part nature of living. Today, I caught up on a old thread over on ElsaElsa.com that addressed yet another way of viewing the Scorpio nature.
A reader with the sig 4Tuna posted this thoughtful comment describing the "Dove" side of the "Sting" or as this person called it the "Wing or Sting"List. It reminded me of a familiar 12-Step Inventory thing where a person can do personal inventory "a searching and fearless moral inventory" ... and perhaps it's just what I need today. I'm doing all the sorts of things that aid in grief work that needs to be done now ...
Other signs of the zodiac might not have the same degree of mirroring natures, and yet all of us have multiple sides to our nature.
“Sting or Wing”
Here are the attributes for Scorpio’s Stinger(unconscious survival mode)and the Dove(conscious loving mode). It’s easy to see how the Stinger depletes energy and the Dove energizes. enJOY!
Yesterday I was feeling just about as low as a gal can go. A being like me with a mind that thinks deep and feels even deeper has a challenge when it comes to dealing with grief. No one can really stop from grieving, and when you lose an earthly connection (no matter how transformed and spiritually satisfied you are) as close as the one I am grieving ... the feelings are acute. I've been crying for days, and don't see the end of it at least for a while yet. So, for a bit of a break I jumped in my trusted Scout the Subaru, and drove into town where I could make a cellphone call to my therapist. Yup, this old dear has a therapist and an astrologer! I've had 'graduation ceremonies' from therapy and when the ride gets too much for me, I check in and spill my guts and let this trusted guide read the oracles in my intestines. Sounds funny to describe it this way, but it was precisely the way it was for me. It was a gut-wrenching Saturday. I had to leave a message on K's phone, she was out ... we didn't have a scheduled appointment, I was just shooting from the hip with this call. "I'll be in the park for about a half hour before heading back to the woods. If you get this call give me a call back." With the message left, I bundled up (it's back to cool and windy in the Northwest) and had just locked the car. Looking up I caught the eye of an 'old-timer' on a hog ... a nice bike. He had long-ish hair and a good size belly. "Nice place to make cellphone calls," I said. I had seen him on his phone earlier as I was inside the car crying my eyes shut. We both live up the hill from this park and near the higher pass lakes. Neither of us can make cellphone calls from where we live. Anyway, the 'old-timer' is of course, my age, a long-time sailor who worked most his life in the Alaska frontier, "made my money on the pipeline (Alaska oil pipeline) in the sixties and brought it back." We chitchatted back and forth for a good piece of the while and ended up talking about global warming, four feet of snow where there was no more than a foot in 'normal times of the past 30 years.' Yak, yak, yak, blah, blah.
My cellphone rang and I had to excuse myself, "Sorry, this is the call I was waiting for." The old-timer tipped his head, pulled on his super duper helmet and I answered the call it was K. The point of this rambling tale has to do with the frontier that I find myself exploring 24/7. This life from VardoForTwo is as unpredictable as any frontierswoman has ever experienced. The reality of life as two 60-somethings during a time of Earthly shifts that will go down in record as 'something big' makes me think of characters from another era. I don't know that the role model pictured with this article is what I had in mind ... it was her nickname that just popped into my imagination as I began to think, "Post time." In many ways Pete and I blaze new trails and hope to just keep our tails covered when a decision we made under duress needs to be re-done after the fog cleared. We're spending our last shackles and dollars on rehabing the old `66 Dodge truck, riding out the predicable and unpredictable triggers of toxins and toxic offense, and trying to make choices that will align with the universe. We take our best shots so to speak. Some where along the trail our tokens of trust must be exchanged for the unpredictable nature of the wild, wild whirl. That's what we do. I take my dose of therapy, accept the objectivity of those who I believe I can trust, and keep riding.
That gal pictured in this article was born with this name: Martha Jane Cannary-Burke. She too was a frontierswoman who cooked, smoked cigars and welded a shot gun better than most men in her surrounding. A heroine to me? I don't know ... one thing for sure I can sure relate to her other name ... Calamity Jane. Now there's a good name for a "Can(n)ary!!"
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.
You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -- over and over announcing your place in the family of things
