... dreaming of JuJuBean her donkey (copied by permission from Leslie Richard)
Blogs are an amazing form of connecting. With a gazillion doors to open from our trusty old (2000 Sony) laptop we Vardo people have jumped into the ether-sphere to find all forms of opinion, news that never makes the News, information about product, on-line shopping and then all the personal journaling of bloggers, and bloggers who live with chronic illness like MCS. My oh my. What a world. It's safe to say bloggers have lassoed me from the brink, made me laugh, made me think. Without meeting face to face, bloggers have become a virtual social circle ... a substitute for what used to be my social whirl.
Last week I stopped to visit one of these bloggers, Leslie over at the Oko Box Blog. I first bumped into Leslie on The Canary Report, very early in my blog experience. I found Susie Collins' and the community of canaries with Multiple Chemical Sensitivities at a time when I really needed to know others were living with the morphing forms of this condition. Right away she intriqued me with her quirky and sweet sassy comments and then I followed her over to the Oko Box Blog. Leslie Richard is one funny, wonderful sistah. Her perspectives are elf-like, her creative spirit adventurous and her solutions for "upcycling" (her word for recycling) a pair of jeans or a wooden chopping block using real sand and a flat stone ... well, if you haven't met her yet go HERE. This is woman who has tickled me when I didn't think I had a snip of tickle left to my name.
On to the reason for the title of this post : DONKEY DREAM. Leslie is asking for donations to make a dream of riding a donkey come true. Now, if you've been a VARDOFORTWO reader you know we are dreamers and wish makers and we cotton-to ... we love...we support the wishers of gentle folk with Earth and the cosmos in their heart. This DONKEY DREAM is just the sort of dream this old dear loves to know about. It doesn't take a lot to support a dream, sometimes one something or someone at the right time and place will warm a litle Match Girl in her time of greatest need. A few or a lot of people donating a little bit will make this dream come true.
With permission from Leslie I've snipped a bit of her original post about this dream, and copied that cute donkey's picture. I like this sort of direct connection ... made across the ethers...make me feel less alone, and that is a nice warming feeling. Oh, here's a little bit of what she said in her email when I wrote asking for permission:
Hey!
That would be awesome, of course I'de love it if you posted about my donkey dream, i want people to know how awesome donkeys are & also not to give up when you are sick!
Leslie lives in the Smokey Mountains, in North Carolina on country land where she can be the best living on the Earth, in the woods sort of gal she truly is. This is her opening paragraph about dreaming of a donkey.
I am now accepting donations to help me buy a donkey! It all started a few years ago when I began having seizures and could no longer drive a car, or even ride as a passenger without causing serious medical discomfort. Soon after realizing my new isolating plight I met an old man on Reems Creek Rd in Weaverville NC who was raising midget ponies, he loved his midget ponies so much he teared up talking about them & he said they were his only joy... after hearing him talk a flash of brilliance popped into my travel weary mind that I needed something to ride on that was just my size! Over the years I kept my wish alive, letting it evolve with my changing life- but as my situation became more 'small pony' friendly the economy became a monster. A monster that gobbled up all my money and left me rather poor.
It's a delight to share the page with a being who has filled me with hope across the blue screen of an old Sony laptop. Wonders of wonders. Twinkle twinkle little star how i wonder what you are. Up above the world so high Like a Diamond in the Sky ... Leslie, this wish is for you and JuJuBean ~
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
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.
Pete thinking, "This truck would make it happen for us."
Kolea ... the Pacific Golden Plover and great long-distant migrator thinking "Bugs, must find bugs to fill my tummy ..."
Well, most migrators have an internal clockworks that lets them know there are things to do, food to be stored (inside their bellies) and all attention simply turns to the activity of the moment. That's what we old birds have been doing for the past several weeks. Especially my old dear mate, Pete ... who is the major tinker master and now fixer of an old truck. Bernadette is the newest woman in my man's life. While I do the things that matter in me own side of the whirl Pete has been a very busy bird.
If you've never met Bernadette the Dodge link here and readabout her and the recent progress being made to her so we can migrate for the winter.
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.
By request from a dear person in my life who was being bamboozled by a blogging snaffuu of my making (I believe I made the links disappear in a previous post, so sorry about that. It was an 'ole day adjustments, and I know better than to do that on a rest day). WOOD CRAFTING the fairy tale ... links to read the eco-tale I have spun ... from the beginning and in segments thus published here on VARDOFORTWO.
If you simply click on each of the links below you ought to be able to read WOOD CRAFTING from the start and in order. Breeze be upon you, and a heart ready for a 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.
We were tired from the afternoon of harvest and weeding and ready for the feast.The omelet was ready before potatoes were done.A two course summer dinner stretched the late summer meal accompanied by a gang buster beautiful orange glow of a sunset through the fir and pines.
Summer heat sits stoutly in the Pacific Northwest, and for a week the temperatures climbed past 100.A sweet breeze is moving air through the vardo as I write making the temperature a delicious sort of heat.JOTS is perfectly stretched in luxury on her porch rug, restoring her kitty self for hunting much later in the evening.Pete is engaged in the man-kind activity that he loves.A trip into town yesterday anchored all the pieces and bits of wire, lug nuts, adaptors and etc. bits necessary to make Bernadette road ready.My work:I learn to set limits and draw the necessary communication skills from somewhere within me as our friend forgets that no fragrances really means no fragrances.That part of living during our first season of harvesting from a new life is difficult.If there is one lesson that repeats itself as I live with MCS it is limit setting.Now that there is no denying the truth of my environmentally induced illness, there is always one more situation that must have a limit set.I am a native who used to believe others ought to just know better. Late in the evening Pete, our friends and I met in the strawberry patches now nearly spent from their season of abundance. There were a few berries still to find. Anna came over and apologized for the slip in memory ... "Sometimes my brain just doesn't remember. I know, but something happens. All I can say is 'I'm sorry and will I be forgiven ... it won't happen again?" "Sure," I said. Across the edge of the patch Anna walked toward me her trembling hand outstretched. "Here, my penance." It was a huge (nearly purple) late-in-the-season strawberry. Multiple chemical sensitivities to the collective consumer conscious has demanded educating. One explanation is rarely effective, two is simply repetition.Three times can be the charm, or not.We have an investment to make this intentional community of four old people, a cat and a dog mutually benevolent.We have been friends longer than either woman has been ill.Friends are precious, and uncommon.So as we learn to co-exist and co-operate, Pete and I alternate in the pep-talks that create our semi-nomadic lifestyle and we learn.What I am realizing day by day is that this new life we create is less and less about thinking things through and more and more about sensing my way now. Just as this planet, Earth, senses the energy and affects of each ill-chosen design or chemical experiment concocted so do I sense it as a being with multiple chemical sensitivities. Now that I accept the surrender of that condition, learning to sense with trust is my doorway of opportunity. I don't "think" I've been exposed to a chemical that is toxic, I 'sense/feel' the exposure and respond from that place...hmmm.
Then there is the texture of our uncommon, one could call it an exotic life.When I heard the word used to describe my life I felt an old cringe:I have been described thus and had grown to dislike the image.After a moment though I felt something and I said in reply, “If you mean our life is rich with flavors, I would agree.This life is definitely a recipe of rich flavors, filled with the values we have grown over time and experience.”If that is exotic and such a far cry from the collective norm than there you are.Add to the pinwheel shaped zucchini a season of exotic every days from the vardo and you would have a sample of first harvests from the Ledge in the woods.A small home fills with concentration in all manner of experiences; our ordinary becomes extraordinary because it requires several more conscious steps to completion ORDINARY TASKS. We are co-creating a life that is made up as we show up.That takes FAITH or something akin to it … some might call it tom-foolery.Alas, what slipperiness lives in words.
This first harvest of fresh, pesticide-free, hand-picked gems takes good, sweat-producing work. I try to make use of the tools I'm learning now to replace the old attitudes, beliefs and attachments that only reproduced illusions of security... From the Ledge in the Woods I sense the reliability of the moment NOW and look up and out through the windowed door. This post is a hodge-podge, a put together from one time to another post, and as it concludes the fog cOme to ease us from the heat waVE early in the morn is lifted, the sky shines blue and this is all.
... dreaming of JuJuBean her donkey
