Riversleigh Manor House

Gather round the tree....

2006-12-20T02:18:00.000-08:00

and sing songs of holiday joy.

Here is a song I wrote for my children when they were young.

What is the meaning of Christmas?
Is it holly boughs
And Mistletoe
And Christmas trees?
Is it pantomime
And magic shows
And stuff for free?
What is the meaning of Christmas
For you and me?

What is the meaning of Christmas?
Is it tinsel and turkey
And Christmas cards?
Is it stockings and presents
And Santa Claus?
What is the meaning of Christmas
To you and yours?

Christmas means something to everyone;
Christmas means sadness to some.
Christmas is happiness
And loneliness,
It is memories
And it’s the years to come.

Love is the meaning of Christmas,
Love is a friendly heart,
And children’s smiles,
Like candlelight.
Love is the reason
We are here tonight,
Love is all around
And can still be found
At Christmas time.

Angels to Watch over Us

2006-12-08T06:16:00.000-08:00

My thoughts go to all that have health problems or other issues and I am sending these angels to watch over you.

More Snow

2006-11-27T20:54:00.000-08:00

More snow, all last night, and all day today, it just kept falling, a clean white sound suffocating blanket of fresh snow. Few wandered out. It not being walker or cane friendly weather, I stayed in at gazed at it through the window, although briefly I did go out to walk my dog. I negotiated with extra cookies to get him to come back in. He could have played in it hours longer. The city is ill prepared for so much snow, and most stayed home. It is lovely thought, especially in the pre dawn hours, then to walk the dog is ideal, acres of virgin snow and just us and the stars out in it. The sound of the city dampened and my happy Belvedere making like a snow plough with his nose.

Some new additions on my website, have a look

2006-11-18T21:54:00.000-08:00

Please use either of these links:

Seasonal Animations

Animations Just for Fun

Views from our Window at Sunset Bay

2006-11-02T07:06:00.000-08:00

Cool Slideshows

Memories of Old Books

2006-10-20T11:26:00.000-07:00

I enjoyed reading about early books from childhood days. I am adding a picture of an old style reading book to go along with the memories.

From another brother

2006-09-17T02:35:00.000-07:00

thought you might enjoy this

................................................................................

Jack took a long look at his speedometer before slowing down: 73 in a 55zone. Fourth time in as many months. How could a guy get caught sooften?When his car had slowed to 10 miles an hour, Jack pulled over, but onlypartially. Let the cop worry about the potential traffic hazard. Maybesome other car will tweak his backside with a mirror. The cop was stepping out of his car, the big pad in hand.Bob? Bob from Church? Jack sunk farther into his trench coat. This wasworse than the coming ticket. A cop catching a guy from his own church.A guy who happened to be a little eager to get home after a long day atthe office. A guy he was about to play golf with tomorrow.

Jumping out of the car, he approached a man he saw every Sunday, a man he'd never seen in uniform."Hi, Bob. Fancy meeting you like this.""Hello, Jack." No smile."Guess you caught me red-handed in a rush to see my wife and kids.""Yeah, I guess." Bob seemed uncertain. Good."I've seen some long days at the office lately. I'm afraid I bent the rules a bit -just this once."Jack toed at a pebble on the pavement. "Diane said something about roastbeef and potatoes tonight. Know what I mean?" "I know what you mean. Ialso know that you have a reputation in our precinct ." Ouch. This wasnot going in the right direction. Time to change tactics."What'd you clock me at?""Seventy. Would you sit back in your car please?""Now wait a minute here, Bob. I checked as soon as I saw you. I was barely nudging 65." The lie seemed to come easier with every ticket."Please, Jack, in the car"

Flustered, Jack hunched himself through the still-open door. Slamming itshut, he stared at the dashboard. He was in no rush to open the window.The minutes ticked by. Bob scribbled away on the pad.Why hadn't he asked for a driver's license?Whatever the reason, it would be a month of Sundays before Jack ever satnear this cop again. A tap on the door jerked his head to the left.There was Bob, a folded paper in hand Jack rolled down the window a meretwo inches, just enough room for Bob to pass him the slip."Thanks." Jack could not quite keep the sneer out of his voice.

Bob returned to his police car without a word. Jack watched his retreatin the mirror. Jack unfolded the sheet of paper. How much was this onegoing to cost?Wait a minute. What was this? Some kind of joke? Certainly not a ticket. Jack began to read:

"Dear Jack, Once upon a time I had a daughter. She was six when killedby a car. You guessed it- a speeding driver. A fine and three months injail, and the man was free. Free to hug his daughters, all three ofthem. I only had one, and I'm going to have to wait until Heaven before I can ever hug her again.A thousand times I've tried to forgive that man. A thousand times Ithought I had. Maybe I did, but I need to do it again. Even now. Prayfor me. And be careful, Jack, my son is all I have left." "Bob"

Jack turned around in time to see Bob's car pull away and head down theroad. Jack watched until it disappeared. A full 15 minutes later, hetoo, pulled away and drove slowly home, praying for forgiveness andhugging a surprised wife and kids when he arrived.Life is precious. Handle with care. This is an important message; pleasepass it along to your friends. Drive safely and carefully. Remember,cars are not the only things recalled by their maker.

papa

" If I Could Go Back"

2006-09-12T21:24:00.000-07:00

If I could go back
way, way, way back
To the days of my chilhood
To the times when books were only
to be borrowed from the library
Not many I owned were beside my bed
Not many books were bought
by Mum or Dad
They came from the once a week trip,with parents
and my Brother
walking to the library

At school we had a very small selection.
Back in 1940 our school did not have hundreds
and hundreds of books
Was it because it was a poor school?
Was it like that in all schools?
Was it either of these two reasons?
I know not,it has only just
occured to me as I read
Gwens's story "Song of the Stars"

If I could go back I would
ask and look for such a book
Full of fairytale persons
Full of magic
Full of mystery
Full of wonder and adventure
I would look at the stars as I read her book
I would look at the mountains
I could imagine myself there
I would not need pictures
to show me ...
I would use my imagination

It would be an exciting read
Not like John and Betty books
which I always found wanting
I can't remember what books I brought
home from the library
but,I am sure they were not as wonderful
as Gwen's or I would remember them

Thank you for such a delightful story
in three parts,which I loved ,especially
waiting in anticipation for the next chapter
You may have been in another life Gwen
" A Story Teller extroadanaire"

Lois(Muse of the Sea) 13.9.06.

Song fo the Stars-Part III

2006-09-12T02:10:00.000-07:00

Part III

The next night the children begged for the tale of Brothers Raven and Crow. Star Singer grinned and cawed realistically at the upturned faces,

“All of you know that we are not First Man. What happened to the First Men?” She waited with dancing eyes, then the children shouted raggedly.

“Great Spirit burned them up!!!”

“Yes dears, that’s right.” Star Singer took a deep breath before beginning the Tale of Raven and Crow.

“In the time before us there was First Man, the first people Great Spirit and Star Woman made. They watched their First Children with love and pride, but there was something wrong with First Man. It seemed that they were Trickster’s puppets, and gladly followed his yips and yowls.

Earth Mother grew sorrowful as First Men did not respect Her and treat Her with love. She sent Brother Rainbow Raven to Great Spirit begging his help. When Great Spirit saw First Men digging in the flesh of Earth Mother and spoiling the sweet Tears of the Mother.

It was with great sorrow and shame that Great Spirit chose to purify Earth Mother and begin again. He called Brothers Rainbow Raven and Many Coloured Crow to His Star Lodge and spoke with them.

“I must purify the Earth Mother, and make sure that none of First Men remain to injure Earth Mother. I must burn everything and start anew. I need Ravens and Crows to carry fire to all places and watch to make sure that nothing lives through the fire.

As sad as Brothers Rainbow Raven and Many Coloured Crow were, they agreed with Great Spirit, and said yes to his request.

Who knows why Raven is called Rainbow and Crow is named Many Coloured?”

“Because when Great Spirit made them, they had feathers in all colours!!” The children responded enthusiastically.

“Yes, they were beautiful to behold, with all colours shining in their feathers. Rainbow Raven was a bit more handsome than Many Coloured Crow, as his feathers glistened and changes colour in the sun.

At the time that Great Spirit decreed, a great flock of ravens and crows flew up to Great Spirit’s Star Lodge. He gave each bird a burning brand to start the fires with.

“What did the ravens and crows do then?”

“They flew back to Mother Earth!!” Some of the smallest children were dozing in their blankets, and soon their mothers would retrieve them, and then settle them into their furs in the tipi. As they had always done, the women brought each sleeping child up to Star Singer for a kiss before taking them to bed.

“They did, and as Great Spirit asked, they set fire to everything. Over and over the birds dipped low enough to set fire to grasses, lodges, and trees.

The other animals fled before the flames, mad with their fear of fire. First Man tried to fight the fire, go against Great Spirit’s wishes, but the fire was too great and every living thing on the world died in the flames.

When the Ravens and Crows returned to Great Spirit, he looked at them with sorrow. All of their pretty feathers had been burned black by the fire. No matter what they did to clean themselves the black remained stubbornly there.

Rainbow Raven has a ghost of his rainbow feathers, you can see them gleam with secret colours in the sun.”

Star Singer sipped from her bowl of cooled wild cherry bark tea. Then she began to sing, soft and low at first.

“Before The People
First Man
Walked upon
Mother Earth.
Great Spirit
Bade them love
Earth Mother.
Treat Her with
Kindness
And respect
At all times
In all ways.

First Man was
Rebellious
He refused
To do what
Great Spirit
Asked of them.
He dug metals
From the flesh
Of Earth Mother.
She cried out to
Great Spirit
‘Stop this hurt!’

Great Spirit
Looked down to
Earth Mother.
He saw the scars
In her flesh.
He smelled
Filth in the
Sweet air.
He saw the
Good water
Defiled,
Too despoiled
For any to drink.

He called to’
Rainbow Raven
And his cousin
Many Coloured Crow.
Help me undo
The hurt done to
Earth Mother.
Purify Her
And begin life
Over again.
Raven and Crow
Honour Great Spirit.

They carried fire
Over the world
Diving to start
Cleansing flames.
Over and over
They swooped
Low to ground.
Touch the
Brand to grass,
Light the trees.
Burned away
All First Men.

Raven and Crow
Returned to
Great Spirit
In Star Lodge.
When he saw
Their feathers,
He wept for
Lost beauty.
No longer did
They shine all
Colours under
The warm Sun.

Now they were
Shining Black.
They sacrificed
Their beauty to
Obey Great Spirit.
They tried to
Wash the smoke
And ash from
Their feathers.
Still they were
Shining Black
As storm clouds.

Great Spirit
Bade them stay
Become His
Messengers.
Raven and Crow
Were honoured.
They remained
Awaiting His call.
Great Spirit
Looked down
And saw lonely
Mother Earth.

Star Woman
Came at His call.
Together they made
The world anew,
All of the things
In the Seas,
Every growing
Tree and flower.
The Animals
Great and small.
And Second Man
Came to be also.

The People
Looked at their
World and they
Knew wonder
And gratitude
To Great Spirit.
“We thank you.”
Tell us, please
How to serve
You, Star Woman
And Mother Earth
The best we can.”

Great Spirit,
Star Woman and
Mother Earth
Knew great joy.
“Know us as
Mother and
Father to you,
Obey our wishes
Love and respect
Mother Earth.
Obey My Laws
Follow Star Woman.”

The People still follow Great Spirit’s Way, honouring Earth Mother, praying to Great Spirit, honouring Star Woman; they remember to thank Earth Mother for their food. They honour the spirits of the food they gather, the trees they use to build canoes, lodges, and the Sacred Sweat Lodge. They respect their Mother, and all the living things on Her.

To this day, Brothers Raven and Crow are honoured for their obedience to Great Spirit and carry his messages to The People. Mother Earth rewards us with Her abundance and variety. From her we get the plants we use, the animals we hunt, the waters for us to drink.

Great Spirit’s heart is full of love and pride of The People, and he brings them many blessings, and a life that is good, and happy. Every time you sing a thank you for leaves, berries, rice, or the meat in the stew, you are thanking Great Spirit and honouring Earth Mother.”

The fire was down to simmering coals, and all but the eldest of the children were asleep. Star Singer looked at all the faces, flushed with sleep and happy.

“Great Spirit, thank You for bringing The People together, and the children to my tipi, I will never be old, or be unhappy with the life You have given me.”

Song of the Stars- part II

2006-09-08T01:47:00.000-07:00

PART II

The children began to mass around the tipi as soon as they had eaten their evening meal and washed themselves. There was nearly ten tens of children waiting for Star Singer, whispering amongst themselves and giggling in their blankets.

It was extremely rare for a woman to be given a totem spirit as powerful as Star Singer’s, but it had to be Brother Eagle, for he was the one who carried people to the Stars when they died. Yet, her spirit guide was a gentle doe, with liquid dark eyes, and graceful motions.

Many winters, as Star Singer and Winter Moon squabbled happily; Winter Moon would mutter mock-angrily, “Woman!! I am not prey, nor an enemy, save Brother Eagle for those, and let the doe come and be with me.”

She would return in kind, “Man!!! If you wish it that way, then silence your Badger totem, and let me enjoy the company of your Swan spirit guide.”

They would laugh, embrace and then return to what they were discussing in greater harmony. Normally, such an unusual arrangement, four people, all unrelated and unwed in the same lodge was not done. But, the arrangement worked so well, in many ways for these four, that it was accepted fully.

Star Singer came slowly from her tipi, carrying two buffalo hides stitched together and stuffed with fur, and a blanket that was soft and almost furred by age and washing. Her dress, legging and moccasins were beaded in blue and white, with the constellation of Star Woman prominently displayed.

The children shouted joyous and loving welcomes to Star Singer, she was know throughout The People for her generosity, kindness, and gentleness with children. There was not a child in The People that had not sought the comfort of Star Singer’s lap when they frightened or hurt.

Star Singer smiled, two crooked teeth were all she had left in her mouth, and they were worn small. She waggled her tongue at the children between the teeth, and her face crinkled with delight when the children laughed at her antics.

“I suppose all of you wish to hear the Star Woman Song?” Star Singer knew what the answer would be before she asked.

“YES!!!” Many voices shouted this gleefully. The Tradition of Singing of Star Woman first had begun when these childrens’ grandparents were sitting at Star Singer’s fire, hearing the Songs. Over ten Summer Gatherings it was always Star Woman Song that was requested first. What had begun as chance was now Tradition, and a comforting Tradition at that.

Star Singer settled on her buffalo hide cushion and wrapped frail-seeming shoulders in her blanket. The children moved as close as possible, everyone was surrounded by a glow of warmth and anticipation.

“It was in the winters
Before The People
Came into being
That Star Woman Came.
She saw Mother Earth
And thought her lonely.

All praise Star Woman.

Star Woman spoke to
The Great Sprit of this.
He agreed, Mother Earth
Needed children to love.
Together Great Spirit
And Star Woman
Fashioned The People.

Brother to the wild things.

From the dust of the Stars
From the Oceans made them.
Gave them life with
A warm breath from
White Tatanka’s mouth.

Awaken, Great Spirit’s children.

Blessed them with
Plenty, and faith.
Set them in a good land.
Made us caretakers
Of our Mother Earth.

Walk softly on our Mother.

Great Spirit spoke to them,
‘Care well for your Mother,
Love her, keep her happy.'
I will watch over you,
And shine upon you.

Great Sprit’s first promise.

In times of great trouble,
I will return to you,
And never abandon you.
You are my children,
Born of the dust of the stars
And the tears of Mother Earth.

Heed Great Spirit’s words.”

As Star Singer sang she pointed to the heavens, blanketed with innumerable stars and worlds. Often, she would draw in the soft dirt; figures of Star Woman, Mother Earth and Great Spirit, then draw the stars that were Star Woman.

Song of the Stars

2006-09-08T01:39:00.000-07:00

PART I

The People had met for their Summer Gathering at this place as far back as could be imagined. Trickster’s Lodge was the perfect place, it had good hunting, fresh water, plenty of space and firewood.

Trickster’s Lodge was a massive up thrust of volcanic rock towering over the plains and forest below. Legend said that Trickster, in his great vanity, had begun to build a tower to reach the Stars and trap Thunderbird in the lodge he had made.

However, when Great Spirit and Star Woman saw this, they knew that Thunderbird should never be a prisoner. Together, Great Spirit and Star Woman turned Trickster’s Lodge to stone so that he would never trap Thunderbird in his lodge, and to remind The People that vanity was foolish, and dangerous.

Star Singer was ancient, perhaps ten tens of winters old, she still made the trek to Summer Gathering, and was revered for her wisdom and generosity. She still stood straight, and could walk all day and not complain. She had outlived three husbands, and four of her children had gone to be with Great Spirit, her grandchildren’s’ children were beginning to wed and have children, so she never suffered for food or a warm lodge in the winter.

In the summer months, Star Singer had a fine tipi, near the Chief’s tipi, with two granddaughters bringing her food and water every day. During the daylight hours she slowly, carefully painted the Star Songs on a white buffalo hide that her eldest grandson, Many Wolves, had given her.

At night, however, she was in great demand by all of her People. Star Singer knew all of the Star Songs, and would sing until moonset, if she were asked. The children would gather at Star Singer’s feet, everyone sitting on their own hides, and wrapped in blankets against the dewfall.

When they were all comfortable, and relaxing, Star Singer would begin, in her rich voice she would sing to the children, and draw in soft dirt to illustrate the Songs. She used a fine stick of Ironwood that the old Chief had gifted her with many winters ago.

That was the winter that his firstborn son, Bull Battles, was stricken ill and everyone feared they would lose him. Star Singer had sat by his side, nursing him and singing the Star Songs to him in a low voice. Bull Battles eventually recovered and went on to be a great hunter and wise leader.

Bull Battles’ father, now an Elder, was called Sun Shadow, his brother Winter Moon was still the Shaman, and the Shamans of the other clans all bowed to his wisdom and advancing age. Sun Shadow had traded with Western Desert People for the Ironwood stick to gift Star Singer with.

They had arrived at Summer Gathering a scant day ago, tonight children would begin to gather around Star Singer’s tipi, awaiting evening and the first night of many spent stargazing and asking questions of Star Singer.

This year, Speaks Loudly, the youngest son of Hunting Hawk, would be going on his first real Hunt. Star Singer was not surprised at his behaviour about approaching manhood. He had been boastful and goaded by pride since he first began to speak. Time had only worsened this, and it was common knowledge that Speaks Loudly would never be a Chief, or even Hunt Leader because he was so prideful.

Hunting Hawk’s eldest was a daughter, and while this could have been bad medicine for him, the daughter, Sky Eyes Woman, was born with blue eyes, that had stayed blue as she grew up. The big medicine of her blue eyes made Hunting Hawk well liked and he earned the respect of the Elders and Chiefs.

Sky Eyes Woman had begun to listen to Star Singer when she was barely two winters old. She would climb fearlessly into Star Singer’s lap and lean her head to a withered breast. Sitting thus she not only heard the Song, she felt it too, and it moved her spirit greatly. She begged to study with Star Singer, and Hunting Hawk could not say no to his adored daughter.

So it was that Sky Eyes Woman spent her childhood living with Star Singer and being her acolyte. Sky Eyes Woman was blessed with a clear, high singing voice and it blended perfectly with Star Singer’s. She knew that tonight the children would beg, as always, to hear of Star Woman, and see Her in the sky over Trickster’s Lodge.

Star Singer knew this also, and spent her day in quiet tasks and sipped on hot tea made of liquorice root, honey, and dried elderberries. The Medicine Woman, Rising Moon, had taught Sky Eyes Woman how to make the liquorice root tea, and Sky Eyes Woman had added Star Singer’s favourite, the elderberries to make it even more palatable for Star Singer.

The bond between Star Singer and Sky Eyes Woman went far deeper than simply teacher and student, and woman-to-woman, their spirits were as one many times, and together they had big medicine, good medicine. Winter Moon was heard to say, “The good medicine of Star Singer and Sky Eyes Woman is so great, and it has blessed all of our people.”

Daughters were expected to marry, yet Sky Eyes Woman had remained unwed, preferring the company of Star Singer, Winter Moon, and Winter Moon’s son, Falling Stars. For a long time, people made bets as to when Sky Eyes Woman and Falling Stars would wed. Both parties were nearly ten and ten winters old, old to be unwed, and childless.

Within that circle of four agreements had been made. Sky Eyes Woman would indeed marry Falling Stars, but not until Winter Moon and Star Singer could live together, as neither child wanted to leave the Elder they loved deeply.

Star Singer and Winter Moon loved one another, but neither wanted to forgo the autonomy of living alone. They tried very hard to get along for love of Falling Stars and Sky Eyes Woman, but they were both too old and set in their ways.

They were happy in their arguments, never loud or angry, no, their fights involved much laughter and teasing. As the winters rolled by they had mellowed, and now were dear friends, that could share a pipe and fire in companionable silence. The past winter they had all lived Star Singer’s fine lodge, the camaraderie and love almost palpable in the firelight that danced on their lodge’s walls.

Now that summer had come, it would be time for Falling Stars and Sky Eyes Woman to wed, when they could retreat and be the two of them only for a time and not worry after Star Singer or Winter Moon. At Summer Gathering, many hands vied for the honour of serving Star Singer and Winter Moon, so they would be well-cared f0r.

This is our Max

2006-07-24T02:46:00.000-07:00

My brother Jim is a dog person, right now he and his girlfriend have 2 dogs; his girlfriend's ancient, blind Yorkie, Muffin. Jim has a marvellous mutt named Max. That is supposed to be short for Maximilian, supposed to be.

Max was adopted from the pound, already neutered, with all of his shots. He sat in his cell in the pound with sad eyes, and downcast demeanor. My brother Jim thought to himself, "That is one sad dog, he won't be much trouble.".

So, he adopted Max with all due haste and the very second he walked out of the door of the pound, leading this docile mutt, everything changed!! Max went wild!! He ran in scrabbling circles around the parking lot, barking in delight and dragging Jim with him!! Who said that neutering mellows the male animal out???

They, Jim and his daughter Kryssi, finally got Max loaded in the truck. Avoiding his tail that wags 24/7, and those spring-loaded hind legs they managed to make it home without getting into an accident. By this point Jim decided that Max is actually short for "Maximum Overdrive".

Max is a lovely dog in appearance, he's a mix of Great Dane, Greyhound, Rhodesian Ridgeback, and Pit Bull. He has a short dark fawn coloured fur with white and light golden-brown eyes, he looks like he is smiling all the time.

He has the deeper, powerful chest of a Great Dane or Pit Bull, the legs and dancing gait of a greyhound, the colouring of a Rhodesian Ridgeback, and the head of a Great Dane. Those springy legs are well-muscled, with white toes on all four feet, yet they are as delicately drawn as any greyhounds'.

He is playful, affectionate, sweet of temperament and very loving. He loves romps, and tug of war; he is in his glory at Christmas, for he is fascinated by the sound of crackling paper. As everyone unwraps their gifts Max is there, with bright eyes and an enormous doggy grin. If he was allowed to, he would shred every bit if gift wrap to tiny flakes of paper, scattered from one end of the house to the other.

He has also developed a taste for lizards, much to everyone's consternation. He will catch them and eat them whole, his 'food' begins to freak out; then thrashes until poor Max throws them back up, alive and unharmed.

Max has appointed himself "Guardian of the Human Puppies". The kids romp in the pool and Max runs around and around the pool barking ceaselessly, with his forehead crinkling in worry. By the time the kids have grown too weary to swim any more poor Max has run the pads of his paws raw on the pool decking.

No matter how hard everyone tries to keep him from running his feet raw, Max refuses to be derelict in his self-appointed duty. This isn't easy for him, because he doesn't swim well, and he does not like water.

Max also fancies himself a lap-dog. As soon as one of his favourite humans will sit in a chair or on the couch, he lumbers into their lap. He would happily remain there if Jim didn't chase him off. He worries that Max will accidentally hurt someone, which is very possible.

Despite his quirks and flaws, Max is loved by everyone that meets him, because everyone is Max's friend. All guests are greeted with loud wuffs, wagging hindquarters, and a smile as broad as Max can make it.

The people he deems 'special' are gifted with even more of a greeting than everyone else. He takes off through the house at a dead run, always circling back to the beloved guest. He will scrabble to a stop and, if he weren't told not to,would jump up to lick the person's whole face in two or three swipes.

Tears in my eyes as I remember

2006-06-23T23:43:00.000-07:00

I read Faucon's story of his conversations with his Father
and I remember writing a story for a book we wrote at a
Neighbourhood Learning Centre way back in 1979.
The book was called "Release of Learning" :"And Now it flows"
Stories of life.learning and happenings of women who came together
to write in "English for Fun" a way of remembering

Tears are in my eyes as I remember too my Father
He was ill for many years ,BUT we did not discuss the possibility
that he would die
He was still alert mentally and still vitally interested in all about him
He had no belief of a life after death or in any God
And seemed to be at peace with himself at the end.

Knowing that he had fulfilled his life's ambition
to love and help as many of mankind in his own way
as he could
I laid him out the day he died
as I had done so many times in my work as a nurse
It is a different feeling when it is your own Father
No it was not easy !
But I knew him better than any undertaker
I knew the clothes he liked
How he prided himself on having clean socks
after his days work was done ,and of course his
beloved slippers
I never covered his face with a sheet as was the custom
in those days
I don't know why they do it
I left his face uncovered until it was time to go to the
undertakers parlour'
I looked at him ,he was at peace
With no more pain...
Bert was a good bloke.

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 24.6.06

A Season in the Abbey

2006-06-23T22:54:00.000-07:00

Sick and paralysed, Nelson returned to England, and decided to accompany his father to Bath for a cure in January 1781. In a busy season Nelson was lucky to find digs with the apothecary Joseph Spry at 2 Pierrepont Street. News of the expedition in Nicaragua reached Bath as one of the army officers was also recovering his health in the city.

During the 18th century, Bath was an extremely fashionable cultural hub, attracting the aristocracy and gentry from all over the country.

In Lemuria it is the Abbey which is the cultural hub for artists and writers. Indeed, Riversleigh Manor is closing down for a couple of months and we are all going to have 'a season' in the Lemurian Abbey.

So anyone who is still here needs to pack their bags and hot foot it over to the Abbey bofore all the digs are occupied. We will make sure that there are plenty of activities to amuse everyone while we are ' in the Abbey'.

My Father

2006-06-21T17:44:00.000-07:00

Dad has moderate dementia, and this might be the last time I will see him where he remebers my name. Yet, special moments bless our time together in spite of 'helicopter sisters'. As I walked with Dad, he said,

“Years ago there were things I wished I could forget – now I have – not too bad.”

As I played a dice game with Dad, he chuckled after complaining that he couldn’t remember the rules,

“At least no one can claim I am cheating!”

After I told Dad a story, he shared,

“I know that once when I heard a good story I could think of another right back – now I think of several, but never have the time to figure out which one is right.”

After I read him a poem I wrote from a couple of years ago, he quipped,

“I’m not sorry I can’t remember that one, ‘cause now I get to hear it again.”

While chatting with the museum curator, he noted,

“I can’t remember just where I found that, but I sure remember the excitement I felt – and thinking how stupid people were not to know what it was.”

After talking to Em on the phone, he whispered,

“I was going to hang up but guess she might want to talk with some more – that I remember.”

As he was settling into bed, he mused,

“It’s been so long since we were together I’m not sure how much I can tease you.”

…………………………………………….

These things, Dad – I will remember

Dressed for morning tea

2006-06-20T18:55:00.000-07:00

Dressed for morning tea
Originally uploaded by FranSb.

I could not resist
Miss Five, all in her best, for tea at the local cafe

after the wedding

2006-06-20T15:47:00.000-07:00

We had the most perfect day for our wedding - not too hot but very sunny, 10 guests including my two children; and althought J and I were mindful of the circumstances of our marriage (my late husband, his late wife) we had a joyful day.

The wedding itself was a four minute ceremony at the local Register office and then we took our guests on a trip on the Mersey Ferry made famous by a long ago pop song.

We then travelled about 20 miles the historic city of Chester for lunch and finally ended at a canal-side pub for coffee and cake. A perfect day out.

After the guests had departed J and I took my daughter and son (who are aged 26 and 21) for a quiet drink at a bar overlooking the estuary near to where we live, and I was so grateful that all of them were getting on well and that J had been accepted as my new husband so graciously by my children.

We had a few days away after that in the beautiful county of Shropshire where the sun never stopped shining and where we explored the most enchanting towns.

Since arriving back it has been panic stations as my daughter is renting a flat in Amsterdam and my son is going to join her there. I have also been ill(!) with suspected gallstones (nice wedding present) and am waiting to see doctor at the local hospital. Yay!

Life just keeps on going on! I had wanted a period of calm reflection after the marriage - time to think about the meaning of what we had enacted, and how I felt about my late husband. Never mind. I'm sorry to have been away so long and am glad to be back - have missed you all.

To mark Steph's birthday...

2006-06-16T04:40:00.000-07:00

The Pye 'N' The Skye

2006-06-16T00:48:00.000-07:00

I had returned to the maternal nest to lick my wounds and begin the process of healing. Mum had a cat; an ancient, feeble calico called Tabby. She had grown stout as many spayed female cats do, and she was so stove up from arthritis that she couldn’t groom her back.

Poor old Tabby!!! All the fur on her back was in permanent feltings; that irritated her to no end, she would go into something akin to a grand mal seizure when you tried to pet her or pick her up. Matt and I both begged Mum to give Tabby mercy, and not let her go on suffering like she was.

Finally, in late spring of 2004, Mum agreed and she and I took Tabby to the vet. All of us grieved for the loss of a cat-panion, pathetic as tabby had become she had been a cat, with her share of feline quirks, and her own irascible personality.

For one empty summer the house was catless, and Mum and I were lost without a furry companion, no purring pal to stroke and spoil.

Matt and his roommate told us of a cat with kittens in their apartment complex, with only 2 kittens unclaimed. His roommate described them as a white one and a dirty white one. Mum agreed to take both of them when they were old enough to go on their own

They arrive at last on an autumn evening with a squirming tote bag. When the bag was sat on the floor, a kitten with the beginnings of a chocolate mask on his face jumped out and pounced Mum with mischievous intent. Then as Mum crowed with delight over the ‘bad-egg kitty’, a shy white face with enormous blue eyes peeped out of the bag.The white kitten looked at me and when our eyes met, she was utterly and irrevocably mine. I scooped her up and snuggled her close, she purred in joy and began kneading on my shoulder with delicate paws.

So, Mum had her baby and I had mine. Mum had already decided that she would name her kitten Pyewackett, Pye for short. He ended up with a name longer than his tail, ‘Pyewackett P’Wacko Sneaky-Pants’!!

..I had preferred to wait for a name suiting my kitty perfectly, with her cirrus cloud-like coat, and her pale blue eyes she looked like a winter sky. So I chose to name her ‘Sweet Lady Snowspryte Skye’ and call her Skye for short.

"Mine, mine!! All Mine!!!

Anyone who has ever had the privilege of watching kittens grow know what a delight they can be, both awake and asleep.

Everything is a toy to kittens, especially one another. As they were freshly weaned when we got them, they still sought the safety of snuggling close to Momma, since Mum worked nights I became Momma. After Mum left for work the three of us would climb into my bed, and snuggle ourselves into sleep.

At Christmas Matt and his roommatewent their separate ways and Matt moved in with Mum and I. Pye immediately decided he was Matt's cat. Truth be told, they're two of a kind!!

While Pye and Skye were growing, Mum got a mate for her lady cockatiel, Betelgeuse. After two tries, she approved of the male we brought home. Matt and I dubbed him ‘Mr. Twee-Deedles’. Mr. And Mrs. Twee-Deedles set about laying a clutch of eggs. In the summer of 2005, they successfully hatched and reared 1 chick. He earned the name Cosmo (from ‘Seinfeld’), and Mr. Twee-Deedles got a first name. So Mum now had Betelgeuse and Bosco Twee-Deedles, and their child Cosmo.
Cosmo learned to talk quickly, here he is telling Pye, "Don't touch the birdies!"

Pye’s markings grew apace with his taste for mischief, and it was common to hear Matt shout “OWWW!!” and groan a breath later, “Pye!!! That hurt!!” The feline in question would come sauntering out of Matt’s room, kinked tail aloft in satisfaction.

Both kittens displayed their Himalayan and Siamese forbears in their own unique ways. Pye grew into a remarkably handsome Himalayan cross, with classic markings and hybrid vigour. He waxed fearless & bloodthirsty, every inch a cat guarding a Holy Temple in Siam.
Skye is slender and lithe as can be, and she can be as icily aloof as any pedigreed Siamese, and twice as loyal. She remains dainty, half the size of Pye, and prefers to have me all to herself. She has finally warmed to Matt and Mum, but still seeks my comfort at bedtime.

They will be two years old at the end of June, and are definitely a part of the family, having won all of our hearts, and those of any visitors we may have. Mum doesn’t regret her choice. I never need to ask that, when I hear Mum’s delighted shout from the other end of the house, and see Pye racing pell-mell for Matt’s room, I know that Mum adores the kitties. And they are devoted to her

Every night that she works they greet her at the door when she returns, and visit with her until she falls asleep. Often, Matt or I will wake later and find Mum and both the kitties, sleeping in three curled balls on Mum’s bed.

So for anyone that worried I would still be without a cat-panion, worry not, I have my ‘Sweet Baby Girl’ that I spoil and groom, and give my tenderest heart to. I do battle with ‘Pye-Guy’ and his sapphire blue eyes are gleaming with delight when I break out the oven mitts.

That has become a favourite game of his, playing slap-and-claw with a human wearing oven mitts on their hands for safety. Pye will park on the counter, sitting on his kitty haunches and slap away at the oven mitts, eyes glowing red and teeth exposed.

I am able to tell which cat is which with a blindfold on. Although they are both long-coated, and they both have a trademark Siamese kink in their tails, that is as far as it goes.Skye has overlong outer hair, falling silkily from a part down the centre of her back. She looks and feels cool as a snowflake. Pye is all undercoat, thick, impenetrable and downy. He looks and feels warm as a sunny harvest afternoon.

More of Will

2006-06-15T01:47:00.000-07:00

Sweet Water

Those from other than a desert clime cannot embrace the internal map of watering holes and oasis that imprints itself of mind and soul. An ancient guide would know of every spring and seasonal flow, of hidden well and globular root that held the nectar of life. My friend Will was of these – from parched experience, Indian stories and feral whispers. One may not believe all of his stories of adventure ands spirit of the land, but one does not play false with water. And thus it was with the Sweet Water Spring.

“Draw a line from Big Bend (Walker River) to the Watinabi Marsh eighty miles south. Draw another from Miner’s Cup to Washoe Damp. Near the intersect you will find the sweetest water of the Great Basin. Or you can just follow your nose or turn your mule loose within twenty miles.”

“Why sweet water, and is it part of an underground stream, or what?” I queried by way of encouragement. The old man offered many things, but never talked just to move the dust about. I think many old folks start sentences and never finish their thought – a sign of senility, they say. But I think wisdom does not care to share with those who will not pay attention. “Many are called, but few choose …,” is a phrase that comes to mind. There was popular myths of secret underground rivers beneath the high desert – another treasure to be found. That he ignored my feint told me more than conjecture.

“There is a mineral taste to most water out here – everywhere, actually. Ever try that new ionized water? Dead, dead, dead. But some spring and creek water tastes pretty strange. So, when you find a spring with no noticeable taste but full of life and your taste buds sing -- you call it sweet. Brings to mind Jeannette McDonald singing ‘Oh Sweet Mystery of Life’ but in liquid form. We’ll stop by there tomorrow – take us some picnic fixings too.” With Will this meant chucks of bread torn from the loaf, slabs of cheese and beer soaked jerky, raw vegetables and found berries. This was part of a plan long in the making – my presence didn’t change a thing. Not that I had any objections.

Eating in a restaurant with him was another adventure. He never looked at a menu – just ordered what he wanted, and never ‘got no lip’. Never asked price and usually left a big bill on the table before the slip arrived. He wasn’t wealthy, but never poor either – he just enjoyed reliving the gold rush days. “Once paid $5.00 for an egg,” he ventured, “Back then a fancy Sunday suit only cost $10.00. Then I cooked it up on an assay pan and fed it to this young lady with a new born girl – and husband just killed in the mine. My Missus road with her back to Carson City where she would find a husband right off. Do you know what ‘fecund’ means – every ‘go west’ fella did? Worth more than gold – that’s for sure.” Anyway, that morning for breakfast he told the waitress, “Tell Fred to fetch a piece of rare prime rib you didn’t sell last night, sear it in bacon grease and hide it with a couple of basted eggs. While we’re waiting, I can handle a piece of strawberry pie and coffee.” And she did. I had to fend for myself and didn’t regret the homemade hash and scones and offered ‘grandma’s jam’. They only had butter milk, and I passed – wasn’t into coffee yet.

I was too young to ponder why every woman of any age always jumped to Will’s attention; and men always tipped their hats and asked for his advice. Once by a campfire, this man of 94 years whispered, “If you truly love any woman you must love all women a bit, and if you respect any man, you must respect them all.” Not sure if was speaking to me at all – just himself maybe. But I was telling you about Sweet Water.

When we got to the little canyon after four hours on a dirt road he hadn’t been on for 48 years, there were a couple of surprises. A little meadow had formed and three cotton woods struggled in the rocky shadows. The whole magical spot was smaller than your front yard as the meager water flow seeped back into the ground only a couple of yards from where it bubbled from a pipe. It was an artesian well! “Jake Simms and I drove that pipe down in 1904 and took turns sucking to get it started. Before that it was just a seep spring about a foot across.” The other surprise was a sign – “BAD WATER – DON”T DRINK”, and a crudely marked scull and cross bones. “What do you see?” he asked.

I searched and found many small animal tracks, but no bones or evidence of carrion birds. The sparse foliage was healthy and bright. The pipe was un-rusted, but green with moss. Will just nodded at my observations. “Let’s be safe anyway!” He scraped the skin on his forearm in two places. One he touched to the edge of the pipe. On the other, he rubbed leaves of the cress growing at the base of the spring. Then he plucked a leaf from a tree and placed it beneath his tongue. We waited. After twenty minutes none of his test showed any ill effects. “Silly folk don’t know good water from soda pop! Besides, if it were bad, the Indians would have destroyed the well. Why is it that people label anything as ‘bad’ if it isn’t like what they already know? If they aren’t willing to try anything new that they never experienced before, I wonder how some of them ever had kids. You just watch. When ‘different’ comes to mean ‘bad’ in politics, religion and education – it will be time to move – except that there may be no where else to go.”

When I got home, and Mother asked what we had done, I said, “We drank some poison water and talked philosophy.”

“I thought you were prospecting, or looking for Indian artifacts.”

“That too.”

I had a bottle of that water on my bedroom shelf for years. Somebody threw it out while I was in Viet Nam. Doesn’t matter. I remember.

Betty

2006-06-14T13:11:00.000-07:00

Betty

Betty is a homeless person who once lived in our church's parking lot. She camped in an old van along with her cat and all her worldly possessions. She parked her van in the lot every night, left each morning for somewhere else (we never knew where she went), and then returned each evening. She lived in our lot for well over ten years.

Being a church, we try to help such people. We tried to refer Betty to community organizations who could help her. She wanted no part of them. We tried to arrange other housing arrangements for her. Again, she wouldn't budge. So, we just gave up and gave her a key to one of the public restrooms on the grounds.

Betty is not crazy, but she definitely is eccentric and speaks her mind. She would get after the church gardeners if they cut down her favorite plants. She would chew out parishioners if they made too much noise at evening events. She never came to church even when invited, wanting nothing to do with it. With her being that cantankerous, at times, I tried to avoid her; others, more patient, just let her opine as she wished. You may wonder why we put up with her-- why we never called the police and had her evicted. That's just not what we do. Besides, aren't we all a little eccentric and curmudgeonly at times? And, finally, I think all of us at some level thought: "what if that were me?"

Betty is dying now. She has some sort of cancer. Church leaders have helped her get proper medical care and are now seeing her through hospice (thankfully she is not in the van anymore). Her concern is finding a home for her cat and having her van disposed (which is being arranged). Our church leaders are with her as often as they are able. As one put it to me last night, "we're all she has. We're her family." He's right.

Should we feel sorry for Betty, that she has lived a life in vain? Not at all. I never saw her feel sorry for herself. She is a true free spirit. She is teaching us compassion. She is teaching us to love the seemingly "unlovable". She teaches us the meaning of dignity.

Thank you Betty, for blessing our lives.

A View From My Window

2006-06-14T08:56:00.000-07:00

Winter Greens

2006-06-13T04:51:00.000-07:00

Thought from the swing

2006-06-10T02:36:00.000-07:00

Creation Dance

There is a fine world phased close to this –
you know, the one we are taught is real,
and it contains shadow reflections of my being.

It is not of seeing but of knowing –
beyond belief, more portent than blind trust,
and embraces the totality of this Attention.

I do not speak of divine caress of soul –
the other Knowing, of Epiphany,
in which Source and I resonate as one and be.

Nay, this is the realm of Covenant –
of all that can be imagined, or imagines me;
from which I can draw wisdom and congruency.

I hear the tinkling chimes of what might be –
against sure balanced rhythmic drumbeats
of what has come before and is of humanity.

Somewhere in the feral mist of memory –
those Currents that allow presentiments,
lies the key to magickal propensity.

and of this I know in lonely truth –
that of this Embrachure of Knowing,
there is an eternal link as basic as Eternity.

What I Know is to what is Unknown –
as is my Wisdom to all Imagined,
and every thought expands upon Creation.

On Labyrinths

2006-06-08T19:28:00.000-07:00

I needed to take a brief break from my pirate activities.......

On Labyrinths

Spirals and circles are recurring shapes in nature: nautilus shells, sand dollars, the moon and sun, human DNA. It is not surprising then that circles and spirals show up in the art and religion of many cultures throughout the world: the Tibetan mandala, Native American medicine wheels, prehistoric petroglyphs and European labyrinths.

A labyrinth is a circuitous pathway spiraling to a center. Unlike a maze, a labyrinth has a single path to the center with no dead-ends or detours. There is only one way into a labyrinth and that same way leads back out.

Labyrinths were created in Europe and the Mediterranean region well before the Christian era, but the most prominent ones were constructed during the medieval period, many in churches. The most well-known labyrinth today is found in Chartres Cathedral. The Chartres labyrinth is constructed of colored tiles and laid into the floor of the cathedral's sanctuary.

In the early medieval period, many Christians made pilgrimages to the Holy Land. As travel became more expensive and dangerous, labyrinths were constructed in these cathedrals to provide an alternative to the pilgrimage. Walking a labyrinth became a symbolic journey to Jerusalem. Later, labyrinth walking became, more broadly, a metaphor for the spiritual walk through life and became a form of moving prayer or meditation.

Labyrinths fell into disuse after the medieval period; however, in the last ten years labyrinth walking has experienced a resurgence of popularity in some American churches. Labyrinth construction projects have sprung up across the country as parishioners and other spiritual seekers enjoy the benefits of this contemplative practice.

The process of walking the labyrinth is simple. The walker begins a slow, deliberate walk into the labyrinth. Many of the American labyrinths are based on the Chartres model that has a full course of about two-thirds of a mile. Walking this distance, spending time in the center and walking back out can take anywhere from half an hour to several hours. It is entirely up to the walker. There is no right or wrong way to walk a labyrinth, but the pattern that many walkers use is spending time during the walk towards the center to meditate or pray about a concern, make a personal confession or reflect on things that could be made better in the walker’s life.

Reaching the center represents meeting the divine presence and usually involves the walker spending some time meditating or praying in the center. Finally, the walk out is a time of spiritual, emotional, and, according to some walkers, physical healing or refreshment.

Walking a labyrinth can be adapted to whatever spiritual or emotional need in front of the participant. Labyrinths can be found in urban settings, manicured church gardens, by the sea or in the wilderness. The location is not important. It is the journey that matters—a symbolic pilgrimage towards spiritual wholeness.

Hybiscus fairy

2006-06-08T01:55:00.000-07:00

Hybiscus fairy
Originally uploaded by FranSb.

The flower fairy
I send to all the lovely folk
who dwell in these parts
and gave me precious words
and storied memories
for my birthday. With love Fran

To Mark Fran's Birthday...

2006-06-08T01:26:00.000-07:00

A bookmark for Fran!

for Frances on her Birthday

2006-06-07T18:37:00.000-07:00

This Old Man

2006-06-07T05:15:00.000-07:00

Those following some posts on other blogs might wonder at the sense of legacy that I feel towars a certain old man. Here is a story that might give a clue ..

but enjoy anyway ...

.......................................................................

GARDEN

It was a pleasure to turn earth in Will’s garden. He had coaxed out the rocks thirty years earlier and had turned the soil double to 18 inches. Each year he spaded the top spread, even if intending to plant a small patch. I paced it off – twenty-eight by fourteen feet. “Enough to support four families in greens and fresh,” he noted, “As well we did during the thirties. Now, I just grow enough for the Missus and me seeing as how folks are accustom to store-bought flavor.” I knew this wasn’t true, as he was always giving bags of tomatoes , zucchini and pole-beans to ‘widow-ladies’ around the block. “Think I’ll dig out those worthless berries, though,” he mused – chin on hoe handle. This was the same threat he made every year, I learned. He believed it made their thorns grow smaller and the berries thicker. Didn’t know anything about this kind of ‘talking to your garden’. Seemed to work, though.

“Did you ever use a tiller?” I ventured, already unable to keep up with his hoeing pace. He knew I meant a gas-powered thing and not one of the old mule-drawn, beautiful five-blade instruments – which was a given he had.

“Nope! Nuthin’ against them except that they stink when you fire them up, and if you can’t smell the turning earth, how are you going to know what compost and fertilizer to add?” Old Will asked a lot of questions I couldn’t even begin to answer. As he didn’t return to his whistling, I knew some other thought was perking around under his massive shock of brilliant white hair. His thinking wasn’t slowed by being eighty years my senior, just his quiet way – like a good carpenter measuring twice and cutting once. He never adjusted his speech to account for my youth, though; and there was a dictionary on the back porch, just in case. He didn’t use special or technical words just for me either – just spoke as he did to everyone. He tilled his mind the same way as his garden, and he wasn’t about to repeat himself; so pay attention. I did, and others didn’t.

“Folks say that tillers save time, which they rightly do, if you don’t count fixing, cleaning and running for gas. So, when I see a man use tiller on a small patch of ground, I take stock of what he does with the time saved. If he uses that time for education or helping other folk, then I would grant that something is gained. If it only makes more time for golf or watching the idiot box, then I think he’d be better off with a shovel.”

“You are not just talking about working a garden, are you?” I queried sweatingly – knowing he wouldn’t answer if I quit spading. He chuckled – always delightful because it came out in two tones; one low and from the ribs, the other a pleasant wheeze – like wind in cedar branches. He reached up and plucked a pear from an offering branch. Then a jack-knife behaved and carved a single swirl of peal – round and around like a lathe. Then he stuck the blade in a stump – signal that it was OK for me to stop and join him. My effort was ugly, but the juice just as sweet as his. He leaned back against a fork in the tree and the slight breeze gave a rocking motion to his stand. I thought maybe he was going to doze off. I sat on the stump, but didn’t move. Patience didn’t come by me easily, but with Will it usually paid off. So I counter butterflies, instead of scratching.

“The right way of thinking got lost during the wars, I think. There was a time when a man might look at your garden, are how you had raise your kids, or the position you took at the town meeting, and say, ‘You hold some values I’d like to appreciate. Tell me what you think about philosophy and politics and keeping a wife for sixty years.’ He might even get around to asking how I choose to pray, but that would come after he took full measure of how I treated my mother, and my dog.” This caught my interest. As kids, we were taught never to talk about money, politics, sex or religion; but I was old enough to know that those were the only subjects worth talking about. Later I was to learn that the wisdom is to never ‘argue’ about these things. I guess Will was saying that if you get the measure of a man first, you never have to argue – but can discuss anything, or at least tell stories.

“Now-a-days, a man blurts out that he is a Republican, or a Reverend, or a Lawyer, a Catholic or an Englishman – and this is supposed to convey some description of values, education and spirituality as a basis of communication. All it can do is lead to argument! A man ought to keep council and show his worth before offering an opinion. Didn’t Christ say something about ‘living your sermon, not speaking it?’ By any balance, a man who claims to be something establishes a standard against he wishes to be measured – and usually fails at it. People are big on saying, ‘I’m a Christian, or I’m Democrat – whatever’. Then they go out and try to force other people to be and think what they fail to do everyday. The higher you set your ladder, the greater the distance to the ground, and if that ground is gravel instead or solid rock – or slippery instead of tested firm, well …”

He had fetched some baskets from the rafters of his shed, and I took this as a clue to drag the ladder to the pear tree and select a proper set for the picking. “Now, if before you climb into politics and religion,” he continued, “you make sure to have a trusted friend there to hold and anchor …”

“But we are taught to trust our teachers and priests and civic leaders,” I protested a bit.

“Then get one of them to hold this rickety ladder for you!”

I don’t know why he spent so much time with me!

Forever Young Fran

2006-06-07T05:09:00.000-07:00

May you be forever young and dance with us on the Pirate Ship
Kick off your shoes and enjoy!

Happy Birthday Fran!

2006-06-07T03:12:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday, Fran!

Here is a postcard of Belenus' clip clops

in the sand over at the cove. Have

a wonderful day!

Of Cuteness and Oreo

2006-06-06T01:09:00.000-07:00

How to approach the tale of my beloved Cuteness?? When I have avoided thinking of her studiously, guiltily for nigh onto three years. There are still tears washing in my spirit for one of the finest cat-panions created by The God and Goddess. She came to be my cat-panion as an also-ran. We were seeking another grey tabby to replace the cat-panion who had fled the terror of a cross-country move.

My then-husband and I relocated from Tempe, AZ. to Corvallis, OR. in May of 1992. In Las vegas we spent the night at a truck stop, and the cat-panion we had at the time (named Dead Kitty, that's a whole 'nother tale) was terrified of trucks and he fled in terror, we couldn't find him and were forced to leave without him.

I was understandably heartbroken and Jim (now my ex) promised me another cat when we were settled. We were still living in a tent at the fairgrounds when the opportunity for a grey tabby kitten appeared. When the human of the Momma Cat brought him over and dropped him off he left the kitten's litter-sister as well. The dainty, black and white runt tugged at my heart-strings as only the sweetest of cats can do.

We kept both kittens and soon were blessed with jobs and a place to live that would allow cats. So in the four of us moved. Jim, myself, The Tom-Tom Cattus, and Mi-Mi Cat. Tom's full name was Major Thomas Heathen Katt, Ret. Airhead 1st. Class. And his fearless, quiet sister was Mi-Mi Heatheness Katt, Esq. Squinging..

Tom grew to be the penultimate Alpha Tom. he held the whole city under his kitty sway, males deferred to him for the females in heat, for he had bested all of them in battle already. His name was changed to King Tomm by the neighbourhood college guys.

Mi-Mi name was changed thanks to a videotape of George Carlin, he was talking about cats and their temperaments, he began to mime petting a cat, replete with feline 'elevator butt' whilst saying, "You're such a cute cat, you're just a cute g**-damned kitty cat." As he was saying his Mi-Mi came in and sat oh so perfectly pretty in the doorway, gilded by the evening sun.

We looked at her an one another, and renamed Mi-Mi, The Cute G**-Damned Kitty-Katt. She was Cuteness for short, and Little Mizz Wide-Glide as she grew older and rounder in later years. Cuteness bore three litters of utterly irresistible kittens in eighteen months, which is when we had her spayed, and got all her shots.

As she matured into a feircely loyal and protective cat-panion, she became a formidable huntress. By the time she was three she had grown bored with rodents and birds, with which she gifted us regularly. She progressed to using her flexibility and intelligence to sucessfully hunt bats.

This tale isn't so much about what she did as a cat, but how she was a cat-panion. She would sit quietly next to my chair as I wrote or crocheted in the winter. We would curl up together on the couch of a rainy evening and bask in the slumberous warmth of the wood stove 'outsert' we had installed in the fireplace of the 100 year old farmhouse we called home.

In the spring, summer, and autumn she would chase the insects I stirred up in my garden as I weeded, dead-headed and basically nurtured my flower and herb, and rose beds. She knew when my husband was due to return and let me know when he did. She would hear his truck rumbling home through the tree-lined streets of historic buildings, well-planned flowers and impressively manicured yards.

At night she would politely curl up on the foot of the bed and purr softly as we fell asleep with the sweet breezes from the open window perfuming the air with grass, and floral scents. In the morning she and I wouyld rise together, and make the coffee, then I would feed her and King Tomm their kibble, water and a small dish of 'people food' for them to share peacably.

Time went by with distressing speed, and when she was three her brother King Tomm passed away from Feline Aids. She and I were heartbroken, and became one another's consolation, when a well-meaning friend brought me a kitten to ease the loss, she was quite indignant.

I explained to her and apologised, and she tolerated the kitten as he grew, as he mellowed into a cat they became 'friends', well as much as they could. Cuteness remained our sweet lady, and settled so comfortably and perfectly into our lives and hearts. In the winter I suffered from pneumonia every year, Cuteness, who was never a lap-cat, would park in my lap, forcing me to rest with rich purrings and gentle insistence.

When my husband became addicted to drugs and grew first distant and forgetful, then neglectful and abusive, she and I grew even closer as I protected her from his wrath and growing violence. She in turn, comforted me when his verbal abuse wore me down to despair and exhaustion of spirit.

As so often happens with severe addiction, my husband lost his job and our home, we wound up living in a 6'X10' camper in the National Forest. Cuteness didn't want to be there any more than I did, but we both stayed for the sake of the other.

If the shame and misery of living in a camper with no bathroom, and ineffectual heat weren't indignity enough, and the worsening abuse and neglect weren't destroying what spirit I had left; the camper was parked right in the middle of Mr. Black Bear's territory. In the evening, when it was Cuteness and I alone in that horrid little box (my ex was off making drugs with his 'girlfriend'), the bear wouuld use the camper as a tackling dummy. He would stand on hind legs next to the camper and rock it on the tyres with his forepaws.

Cuteness was understandably terrified, and clung to me as she shed and hyperventilated. I comforted her as best I could, promising her I wouldn't let the bear hurt her, and that it would get better. I promised her that I would always be there for her, and that I wouldn't let anything hurt her.

A friend couldn't stand to think of us living in the forest and agreed to let us park the camper in her driveway on her farm, which is where we 'celebrated' Christmas. My husband found a job, and I found a home and the assistance to move into the home after the first of the year. As we moved all of our stuff from the barn into the single wide mobile home, Cuteness wandered through the house, eyes alight, saying, "Wow!!" over and over again.

We settled into our new digs and watched the apple tree bloom, and the grass green up. My husband continued to abuse drugs, and eventually lost a second job to them. Back to the camper in our friend's driveway we went. My husband I and were to help around the farm in lieu of paying rent. As he couldn't get and stay clean, he ended up going to rehab over on the Coast. This Christmas it was just Cuteness and I in the camper, we had our lonely little dinner, and curled up to read a book.

Spring came, and still we were in the camper, summer came and we 'upgraded' to a early 70's motor home that had been sitting abandoned in a driveway for years. I srubbed for 3 days to get the stench of mice and fermented 'black waste water' out of the motor home.

Summer came and my husband was gone far more than he was there. he would coast to the end of the driveway, and when he was sure I was asleep he would try to sneak in, so I wouldn't know how late he was with his girlfriend.

Autumn came and I could take no more, the motor home smelled worse than the turkeys or swine barns and carried nothing but bitter memories and associatinos for me. My friend generously agreed to let me sleep in her barn, up in the loft with the stuff that wasn't in use, and the empty canning jars.

I set up a bed, a light, an alarm clock, and my computer. No sooner was there bedding on the bed, than Cuteness ensconced herself on the bed, and in the barn with me. So there we lived, Cuteness and I, two fat middle-aged ladies, fleeing from unhappy times, and deepest hurt.

In the first November we lived in her driveway, my friend and I slaughtered her turkeys the old fashioned way. Cuteness perched on a hay bale and beamed down at me, her feline chest a-swell with obvious pride. I swear she walked every inch of that farm, telling any animal that would listen, "My human made a kill!! My human made a BIG kill!!"

I was working at the local Farmer's Market on Wednesdays, and one such Wednesday, a fellow went through the market giving away kittens. I staunchly ignored him, telling myself that I didn't want or need another cat. Cuteness and I had one another and that was enough for us.

Eventually he was down to the last one, a fluff of a grey tabby with bright white face, belly and feet. He looked at me across the market and I knew he was supposed to be mine. I walked over to the man and the kitten climbed up my chest and attacked my earrings fiercely and joyously.

I laughed and said, "Yes, beastie-cat, you are supposed to be mine and your name is Syd Vicious." We went home together to the barn; Cuteness took one look at the kitten and hissed as virulwently as she could.

Syd, the kitten fluffed as largely as he could and hissed back, Cuteness looked up at me in delight, as if to say, "Oooo!! You got a good one this time human!!!" The three of us crawled into bed together later that night. Morning came and I awoke to the radio, there were Cuteness and the kitten.

He had grown homesick during the night and Cuteness offered him the comfort only she could. There she was sprawled on her side, with Syd attached to one dry nipple, both of them blissfully asleep. I sat there for a moment, feeling such love and pride fill me that I thought I should surely light the barn like a klieg light.

Winter came, and the three of us would curl up under the pile of blankets and snuggle up for warmth. I would have Cutness curled up by my side with the kitten, who had been re-named Archie Roodlz. There was almsot 2 weeks of below-freezing weather. It was hovering around frweezing during the day and down into the low 20's at night. If it was 22 outside, it would be a whopping 24 in the loft, yet the three of us managed a fragile sort of happiness.

Come spring I saved up money and got Archie neutered and got his shots. He had grown into a glossy, bright-eyed, affectionate cat that was full of life and curiosity about the world outside the loft.

Unfortunately, my friend had asked that I keep both the cats in the barn, preferably in the loft unless I was there with them, so Archie was unable to get out and explore the world or romp.

Summer came and I was struggling to stay sane as I kept failing to find work, I would drop off a resume, do an interview, and then came the background check. I was forced to accept that I was not going to find a job in that town, ever, thanks to my ex's reputation in the area.

Autumn arrived in shades of red, golds and oranges, along with a request from my friend that I move out of her barn. I agreed to, accepting her reasoning for it. I called my mother to move back to Arizona, and she barely managed to scrape the money together for me and some of my stuff.

I spent a month frantically trying to find a home for Cuteness and Archie. Two days before I was to leave, I had no choice but to ask my ex to take them. I couldn't take them to the animal shelter because they had had an ourbreak of feline distmper and had closed down the cattery until they were sure that the outbreak was over.

My ex agreed, reluctantly, to take both cats, understanding that they had become cat-friends, and Archie didn't know the world outside the loft of the barn. He arrived in the late evening to collect the kitties, and it was a battle to get the cats in their carriers.

At last they were in their snug little carriers, and fussing as only frightened cats can do. I gathered up their dishes, food, litter box and kitty litter, as well as some things that smelled of me for some comfort to my 'babies'.

Lastly, I walked out to the car with my ex as he put the carriers in his car, and the last thing I heard before he started the car and left was a heart-broken wail from Cutenss when she realised I wasn't going with them.

I wasn't able to say goodbye then, nor let go of the grief, sorrow and shame that I felt at not being able to keep my promise to Cuteness, nor keep on being in Archie's life.

Now I say,
Farewell O Cuteness
Huntress of Bats,
Loyal and loving lady,
Comfort to a troubled spirit
And greatest of friends.
I regret I could not remain
And I grieve your loss still.
Go Home now Dear One,
Home wher I shall join you
One day, and we shall have
Such a reunion.

Farewell, Dear One,
Farewell.

*sniffle, sniffle*

Just Passed Dawn

2006-06-05T05:10:00.000-07:00

It was a sky-shadow morning,
where the breathing mist and pollen hush
provided a pallet for soulful inspiration.

Above the shifting tapestry
of ground-bound swatches of yellow bright,
and shadowed silence of tree and bush;
is a casting of white and gray
where each branch and wire and gable
has its say and cannot be denied.

For just an instant,
every jutting presence –
God gift or man’s defile
has an equal voice
and vote
on what this day will be.

Fisher on Swan Jetty

2006-06-05T04:41:00.000-07:00

Fisher on Swan Jetty
Originally uploaded by FranSb.

He fishes for ideas while I watch to see if he catches a stone fish or a crab.

La Loba

2006-06-04T10:20:00.000-07:00

A woman who runs with the wolves,
never plays by anyone’s rules.
She makes them up as she goes,
with anyone she out shows,
with her you’re best not to fool.

She is the keeper of the wild-like
zing, to her virtues we must continue
to cling.
She stays among all-knowing creatures,
while taking on wolf-like features,
lovingly nurturing her hungry
off-spring.

She is the wise one who collects bones,
for her sins she doesn’t atone.
She is the finder of the soul,
in her charge she keeps patrol,
and to her bidding she is never
alone.

In all women La Loba exists, her tenacity
pushes on, persists.
She gives courage for women to stand tall
reverberate loud, enthrall,
but for her likeness you must learn to
enlist.

Gretchen L. ©

I was inspired to write this poem after I read Women Who Run with the Wolves, by Clarissa Pinkola Estés

The Path to Riversleigh

2006-06-03T13:28:00.000-07:00

The path to Riversleigh, another of my mono-paintings.

image gretchen L. (c)

Five minute workmen

2006-06-02T04:54:00.000-07:00

Five minute workmen
Originally uploaded by FranSb.

The Secretary has heard that some of the travellers have left
a big pile of old bits and pieces beside the road so has called out the collectors to bury all the waste. Here they are waiting for the bus. If you have any more garbage please leave it where it can be picked up. The Sec.

Cottage In Antwerp

2006-06-01T16:14:00.000-07:00

This is my cottage in Antwerp, close enough to the Marquet Square, where I can hear the sound of travelers along ancient cobblestone streets.

This painting I created is called a monotype, a process by which an impression is painted on a plexiglass plate, (sometimes I use a metal plate) then “pulled” with the use of a press to create the image you see here. No two are ever alike.

Gretchen L. ©

Worlds Within Worlds

2006-06-01T13:08:00.000-07:00

Saguaro Cactus Blossom

Epiphany

2006-05-31T07:50:00.000-07:00

Epiphany

Today, with nothing else to do
I thought to dig through the trash heap of a wasted life.
I scraped aside memories;
scraps of torn and faded photographs,
forgotten promises,
mistakes, disappointments,
wrong turns, and disillusion.

Epiphany, they say, is understanding,
so when I found, in the trash,
still living, breathing pieces of myself,
it was an epiphany of sorts.

Carefully, I scraped the scraps together
and fitted them like a puzzle
until I met with me again,
the way I was—the who I was.

Can I keep them, those precious pieces?
Can I go home again,
be who I was again?
Can I do now
the things I pushed aside then
because I was too busy pleasing others,
living their lives instead of mine?
Will the she I was take my hand
and lead me once again into her world,
give me that second chance
to feel the sunshine upon my face,
the wind in my hair
and the exercise my legs require, or

have the years piled up so fast
that the she that was is but a memory
to fade in time as the pieces flutter once again
onto the trash heap of my life?

Vi Jones
©May 31, 2006

five minute dancers

2006-05-31T01:50:00.000-07:00

five minute dancers
Originally uploaded by FranSb.

More dancers dancing
at the wedding

Quickly people

2006-05-31T01:47:00.000-07:00

Quickly people
Originally uploaded by FranSb.

Here are the dancers, will you dance?
find a red dress
or red pantaloons
and a song.

More Berries - Sacred Bamboo (Nandina)

2006-05-31T00:45:00.000-07:00

Cottoneaster and June

2006-05-29T23:07:00.000-07:00

I have a Cottoneaster bush
Not large but healthy looking
I did not plant it from a pot
A bird dropped a berry in the compost mulch
And the next year there was a small bush
I transplanted it ,not knowing what it was
And 2 years down the track
I had red berries

My fried Angela told me...
"People think this Cottoneasteris an ugly bush,old fashioned"
But when trimed and espaliered, it is beautiful
Like succulents,who faded away for years
Then came the revival and now they are greatly admired.
So I will nurture mine and value those red berries
In the Winter months ahead.

Just to think On Thursday of this week
It will be the start of Winter 1st June 2006.
I read where June pays homage to Juno
One of the great Goddesses of Ancient Rome
She was worshipped as the Queen of Heaven
Venerated as the guardian of Womanhood and Marriage,
which explains why June is favoured as the month to wed

Ah !what a mammouth task to ask of one Goddess.
I think perhaps she became old before her time
as her position was not a paid one,
She must have been very special
I Salute the Month of June
and to Juno...well done dear friend.

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 30.5.06

What Manner of Beings?

2006-05-27T09:44:00.000-07:00

I have to wonder as I sit here on this warm spring day about who we are, what we have become, and I ask myself, what is the answer, how do we reverse the trend—how do we become human beings again?

What Manner of Beings?

What manner of beings are we when
we think of wild flowers as weeds,
trees as board feet,
rivers as commodities to be harnessed,
open space as prime land to be developed,
historic buildings as being in the way of progress?

What manner of beings are we when
we neglect our children,
throw away our elderly,
turn our backs on the homeless,
allow hate to thrive,
look away when we see someone wronged?

What manner of beings are we now
that we have lost respect for ourselves,
for others,
for beasts and birds,
for the finned ones that dwell in the sea,
for this living, breathing planet
that sustains us?

What manner of beings are we?

Vi Jones
©May 27, 2006

Cotoneaster Berries - Late Autumn

2006-05-25T03:54:00.000-07:00

On the porch

2006-05-24T16:32:00.000-07:00

from my book 'Henge, Glade and Tiers'

FROM MY STAND

The night trees often play sax to my prayers,
backed up out by the trombone train.
But the holly rattles a distracting theme,
while vines shoot to a higher key,
and I must listen close to the chorus of roots
that plunge to a throaty base.
Peace will come in a clarinet joy of grass.

A Magical Morning

2006-05-24T10:37:00.000-07:00

I spend time early every morning, sitting in my favorite chair on my patio. This is my time for contemplation and for absorbing some natural vitamin D. That's around sixish at this time of the year, when it is too hot later in the day. This morning was extra special with the actors all on stage. It was a morning filled with special gifts. Sitting there with my face toward the sun and my eyes closed, I came to the realization that what I was hearing was a woodpecker. That’s a first since I have lived in this community. I don't know where he was pecking, unless it was in the Palo Verde down the street.

Moments later though, and with my eyes by now wide open, the star of the show appeared ... a huge raven flew across my field of view. Did you, Heather, have anything to do with this ... was he one of your emissaries? He flew slowly and majestically despite being chased by a couple of smaller birds. His feathers shone in the morning sunlight. Let me tell you, he had all the smaller birds in the neighborhood twittering up a storm and he had me shaking with excitement.

Strange, isn’t it, how some days are extra special? This is one of those days. It’s as if the magic drowns out the misery of the world the way it is these days. If the raven can still fly and the woodpecker can peck, then there is hope—hope for us all.

Vi

Rainbows in the Spray

2006-05-23T08:29:00.000-07:00

Rainbows in the Spray

Broad leaves lush and green.
Water dripping, streaming.
Sunshine casting rainbows in the spray,
illuminating you my love, and me—

are you illusion or are you real?
Is your love mine to take,
to keep, and cherish as treasure
forever—

where are you now?
I cannot see you in the hot and blinding
light of day.
Is your love no longer mine—

to keep and cherish
as treasure forever?
Take me back.
Return me to that special place—

where broad leaves are lush and green
with water dripping, streaming.
Where sunshine lights the spray
with rainbows, illuminating—

you my love, and me.

Vi Jones
©May 23, 2006

WHY?

2006-05-20T08:27:00.000-07:00

Why?

Why is such a useless word—
why me, why my sister, my brother,
my father or my mother—
Why not?

Why my friend,
my dog, my cat,
why my hamster or canary—
Why not?

Why did I,
why did she, why did it happen,
how—oooh, why did the how get in there
when all I need to ask is why?

Why, is the unanswerable question,
the Da Vinci code of codes,
the greatest puzzle of all time—
why, why why, and WHY.

Vi Jones 2005
©May 20, 2006

Another Kind of Birthing

2006-05-19T08:58:00.000-07:00

Another kind of Birthing

It can happen any time—
in the middle of the night,
at high noon,
or just as
you’re sitting down
to dinner,
and your guests
are wondering
if you’re feeling ill.

It is at first
nothing more
than an uneasy
feeling in the gut
followed by
palpitations
and breathlessness—
an inability
to concentrate.

You get up,
grab paper
and a pencil,
or, depending
on the time of day
and place, excuse yourself,
and rush to a quiet corner to sit,
pen in hand, poised above the paper.

The blank sheet taunts
and teases,
until, like a bursting dam,
something happens
within the soul
and the words come tumbling
like a waterfall in flood
until the paper is filled,
and a poem is born.

Vi Jones
©May 18, 2006

Magic Donkey Apples From The Road

2006-05-18T06:58:00.000-07:00

A gift from the road by raven!

Lucky Belenus the donkey didn't eat

them all, these treasures found in a walled

garden. Enjoy! (Better than a postcard.)

Midnight Mauve

2006-05-16T17:37:00.000-07:00

Just in case anyone wishes to know the results of combining two paints --
'Midnight Mauve' and 'Celestial Amythst' in a sponge effect ...

here are a couple of pictures of our redone parlor wall, with a view of some of our 64 playable instuments.

The Viking yarn piece was done by Em's mother.

Nurturing the self

2006-05-15T09:27:00.000-07:00

"How you choose to nurture yourself spiritually is a personal choice. For some people, meditating once a day may be what they need to stay centered. While spending 10-20 minutes with your eyes closed and your brain devoid of thought may seem like a lot of time doing nothing, this state of nothingness actually allows you to stay calm and focused so you can be as productive as possible. Writing in your journal everyday lets you stay in touch with yourself so that you are always tuned in to your feelings. Repeating affirmations for success, happiness, and well-being on a regular basis can help you live with optimism and enthusiasm and create what you want in life."

This was on the Daily Om today.

I needed to read this, to remember to nurture myself spiritually every day instead of worrying about the state of the house, walking the dog, doing the washing etc etc.....

I will make a commiment to journal every day and to meditate as well.

Happy Mother's Day

2006-05-14T14:42:00.000-07:00

For all those Mommies and Grannies!

At work on Saturday Morning.

2006-05-12T20:05:00.000-07:00

The old ladies come,
Trailing in and around the stands.
Mother's Day tomorrow.
Will they be remembered?

Mavis touches the lavender bag..
Lovingly
Longingly
Whistfully
And hands over a script for sleeping tablets.

Michael strides in.
Purposefully
Refreshed by a sleep-in after a distracted week.
Pleased with himself.
An unusual rosiness in his cheeks.

He glances at Mavis
She at him.
They leave, separately of course.
She clutches her tablets,
He....his methadone.

Happy Birthday Luna

2006-05-12T03:54:00.000-07:00

Flower Power At Riversleigh

2006-05-12T01:45:00.000-07:00

Hiding In My Room

2006-05-12T01:18:00.000-07:00

Excuse me while I hide in my room... All of my energies are at low ebb, and I feel a great need of re-charging my 'batteries'. So, the cats and I have sojurned into the bathroom attached to the room I share with Shiloh.

The bathroom itself is amazing, spacious, well-lit by the skylight that is the ceiling, moisture-loving plants crowd the edges of the skylight and window. The whole room is done in ceramic tiles of various sizes and styles. The floor is this incredibly brilliant shade of Emerald Green and royal purple lilac pencil sketches on White.

The tub is fronted by a throw rug in the same green, with pile so thick you can lose your fingers among the soft fibres. The towels are so thick and large you could sleep under them if you wished, and they too are shades of green and purple.

The counter is pure white tile around a cultured marble sink shaped like a leaf, white, with a single stripe of lilacs around the counter's edges, in the same purple as the towels. The spigot's handles are white porcelain, with the "H" and "C" in emerald green.

The tub, ah, now there was luxury!! Deep enough to submerge all of yourself in, and large enough to hold two adults comfortably. The tub itself was an oversized clawfoot tub, each clawed foot gripping a bunch of purple grapes.

Next to the tub is the shower stall, done in 1" tiles in white, Emerald Green, and Royal Purple. The shower tiles are in a scatter-type mosaic, no discernable pattern, or reason to the placement. There are ranks of shower spigots on three sides, from 2' to 6' off the floor. The door is frosted in an lilac pattern, with porcelain bars in green.

The tiles surrounding the tub are show-stoppers; They are a bouquet of purple lilacs, with green stems, the delicate pencil drawings fading to paleness in the top row of tiles.

I was filling the tub with hot, steaming water, and White Tea Therapy bath gel (Pye's favourite), and gathering p. j.'s for after the bath. The cats followed me 'talking' as we went back and forth.When I slid into the bath with a soft moan Pye and Skye took their places.

Skye walked the perimeter of the tub, talking incessantly, in a variety of trills and 'chirtlings', as Matt describes her voice. Pye set to eating the bubbles from the tub and and watching me worriedly.

"Well kittikins, Do you agree that it is time to come to ground and rest?" Pye mewed in his sweet voice and Skye yawned elaborately. "I see you agree Dears!!"

I sunk into the water soaking away aches and ground-in dirt from my adventuring, I took a quick turn in the wondrous shower. I was now 'squeaky clean' and beautifully relaxed, I donned my favourite ratty pyjamas, a cropped string strap tee in iced lavender, and soft shorts in a wash-faded grape colour.

I padded towards the bed, only to have Pye shoot between my calves and then block me from getting to our bed.

"What Pye-Guy?? Show me." Pye made a great show of informing me that their food dishes were less than half-full; a cause for serious kitty-cat anxiety! I filled the kibbles dish, and opened envelopes of 'wet food' in their favourite, 'Filet Mignon with Shrimp' flavour, then gave them fresh cool water.

This reminded me that my tumm-tumm was grumblingly empty so I called down to the kitchen for something to eat, and share with my 'Little carnivores'. I had barely cleared a space on my cluttered worktable when a smiling maid delivered my order of chilled, herb-roasted chicken breast, raw veggies and Ranch Dip, as well as a glass of icy cold milk

I nibbled on the chicken breast and shredded bite-size peices for the kitties, and shooed Skye away from the dip and milk. I finally stopped fighting the inevitable and put a splash of milk and a dollop of Ranch dip on a saucer.

Pye checked it out, shook one dark forepaw and repaired to the foot of the bed to groom. Skye's tongue worked in a bright pink blur as she cleared the plate and then licked it clean. She then waddled her little pot belly (temporary, of course) to the bed. She and Pye began to wash each other's faces and ears with eyes closed and love writ on their conic, Eastern Cat faces.

I rinsed the dishes and sat the whole tray outside the door, habits that are as deep as the dish-rinsing remain active, even within the Walls of Riversleigh Manor. I slid into the bed, and sighed in relief. I was closing my eyes as I felt Pye cuddle into the angle of my foot and leg; Skye sidled up to my ribcage and began nursing and kneading, while purring chestily.

The last noise I heard as sleep wrapped me in her healing embrace was the sound of feet tapping energetically in the next room. I smiled, thinking of how much Mum would enjoy that sound, after all the years she studied dance as a girl and teen.

In another place, another time ...

2006-05-11T23:11:00.000-07:00

For those who stayed

2006-05-11T17:41:00.000-07:00

We are telling stories and things on the Journey
but have forgotten those who find the Manor
a comfortable place to be.

This is about our Manor House at Sakin'el

MANOR MORNING

The sun marches down the crippled oak and sets the silent font afire,
as the glowing glade echos the cheer of friends called to Epona’s watch.
A silent breeze carries forth the ivy whisper and the flower’s prayer,
into the mists of yesterday that disperse this new day's perfume.

Diamond dew drops do distill and join the twinkling of the pool,
and birth strong song of hidden bird and glint of fluttered fairy wings.
The sighs you hear are but Tegsh at blessed rest from ancient tears,
and the waiting patience of Haven’s halls and embracing heart of Henge.

Revealed in the gentle light are mem’ried footsteps of sunset prayer
that yesterday’s joining will gift today with rebirth songs of joy.
The dawn is a message gentle of the glory of thee and all,
bound in companioned trust and simple faith that I can share today.

Sakin’el is alive, my child, as surely as my passion sings
of laughing stones and whispering flames and watching falcon eyes.
As you place a pebble in the fountain of hand cycled mirth
you herald the promise of morning and fuel the currents of time.

Arise and dance, little one, to the lilting tune of Everbe;
skip o’er the roots of shadow fears and extend a hand to me.
The rhythm has started with the golden pulse of Earth and stars
and awaits the voices of innocence to proclaim the rising sun.

Happy Birthday Luna

2006-05-11T05:01:00.000-07:00

le Enchanteur puts on a special birthday tea for Luna.

Maiden, Mother, Crone

2006-05-10T23:10:00.000-07:00

Flowers for me, it's my birthday! Come by for some cake and ice cream.

Becoming a Family

2006-05-10T11:22:00.000-07:00

Most mornings begin with Solveig waking up and climbing into bed with Mama and Baba, if she has not spent the night cuddled between us. This morning she had her daycare provider, Neesha, on her mind. Neesha was to the doctor yesterday, and Solveig wondered if she was sick, or if the baby in Neesha's tummy was sick.

"Baby not sick? Baby in Neesha's tummy not sick?"

"The baby is growing in Neesha's tummy. Neesha is not sick. Baby is not sick."

"Baby Wei Wei in Mommy's tummy?"

"Wei Wei grew in her first mommy's, her Chinese mommy's, tummy. Wei Wei did not grow in my tummy."

"No! Baby Wei Wei in mommy's tummy!"

Yesterday if you asked for her name she was Solveig Chun Wei Olson.

Today , "No Chun Wei! Sobay Oshun!"

Since we came home, Solveig plays Baby Wei Wei from time to time. She will insist I put Pull-ups on like they are diapers. Sometimes I have to dress her. Other times she will have me wrap her up in a blanket, hold her like a baby while she drinks from a water bottle. I rock her and sing and coo as if she were a tiny baby. She needs this.

She is birthing herself into our family.

Solveig has no memory of her first parents. She remembers the caregivers, six women, all called mommy! from the Children's Village. She remembers the other children, the siblings of her heart and circumstance. We look at pictures of the orphange and talk about them. I explained how those mommies were everybody's mommies. I am just her mommy (I am mommy to Bjorn and Leif too, but they are close enough to adult as to not count). At school when we sit in circle, I point out the other mommies and their children. I tell her, "Neesha is Violet's mommy and Calen's mommy, but not your mommy! I am your mommy, not Violet's mommy, not Calen's mommy." She verifies this whenever we meet someone and their mommy. I am just her mommy. She doesn't have to share me with anyone. This never fails to make her smile.

Someday she will want to know why her first parents gave her up. Based on what I know of China and of her history this is what I will tell her:

"Once there was a Mommy and Daddy in China. The mommy had a baby growing in her tummy. The mommy and daddy were very happy they were having a baby.

One cold day in winter, their baby daughter was born. She was so beautiful! They laughed for joy, and hugged her and kissed her.

But the doctor was not laughing. She was very serious when she looked the baby over. "Her arm is hurt, it is useless."

The Mommy and the Daddy were scared. They brought their little baby to many doctors and tried many ways to fix the arm. But all the doctors said the same thing. "This is the best I could do and it is not enough. She needs Western surgery to make her arm better. And soon! If she does not get surgery right away her arm will never get better."

The Mommy and Daddy were sad. They did not know what to do. They had very little money, and had used everything to take their precious child to the doctors. Western surgery was so expensive they could never be able to save enough money to help their little daughter in time.

"Oh! What can we do?" they cried.

The Mommy and Daddy thought about what life would be like for their child. Who would marry a girl with one arm? What work could she do? They knew the children in the orphanages were given Western surgeries. Children in the orphanages are educated. Some are adopted into rich families. If their precious, precious daughter were to have any chance of having her arm restored, it was through the orphanages.

But it would mean never seeing her again. It would mean never knowing what became of her.

Even though it broke their hearts, the Mommy and Daddy decided to give their baby to the orphanage. Early in springtime they wrapped her warmly and brought her to where no one knew who they were. Gently they laid her outside a busy factory. They hid and watched until she was found and taken away from them forever.

The baby was taken to a wonderful orphanage. They cared for her while they searched for her first parents. After six months they looked for parents to adopt her. They gave her a name, Xu Chun Wei.

Finally, a Mommy and a Daddy in Meigou, America, saw her picture and knew she was the daughter they had always dreamed of loving. They came to China and brought little Chun Wei to America in an airplane to be their child forever.

Every winter, on Solveig Chun Wei's birthday, her American mama lights a candle and says a prayer for her Chinese parents. She wonders if they are thinking of their precious daughter, wondering if she is well, wondering where she is, if she is happy. The Mama prays to honor Solveig's birth parents by doing whatever it takes to help their child regain use of her arm and give her the happy life they want for her. That when they meet in heaven there may be joy."

Solveig may play Baby Wei Wei, but nurturing her is birthing her for me. Never is that so literal than one of the rare times when she is sick. Two AM and my miserable little girl stands by the side of the bed. Mommy picks her up and little Wei Wei vomits all over both of them and the bed besides. Mommy strips the two of them and washes them clean in the shower. She fills the tub with warm water and lavender oil, lights a candle, and holds her sick child in the cradle of her legs and arms. Wei Wei is soothed by her heartbeat. When mommy feels her begin to gag, she holds up a bowl, wipes her face. When the fever cools Mommy gets out of the water, dries them off with towels, wraps them both in a comforter and settles in the rocking chair to sleep.

For three days and nights they are together, skin to skin. Wei Wei a limp doll in Mama’s arms, accepting sips of clear broth and white soda pop, sleeping, lying quietly when awake. On the morning of the fourth day Wei Wei wakes up voraciously hungry, eats until she is ready to burst, then runs around laughing. Everything is new again.

Baba takes over while Mama sleeps from morning until the next morning.

“Mama sick?’

“No, Mama is just sleepy.”

Solveig Chun Wei strokes her mama’s hair and murmurs, “There, there, better soon,” before kissing her forehead and running off to play.

My favourite places

2006-05-08T16:54:00.000-07:00

When we were first married Glyn and I started taking our annual holidays in Wales. I remember long sun drenched days when the children were small and ran on the beach near Aberystwyth, rain filled days one year when we were on Anglesey and one holiday when we stayed in a caravan at the edge of a cliff overlooking Clarach Bay.
Clarach Bay proved a magical place for me, where green velvet hills reached down to the sea and where we sat with a glass of wine every evening for a fortnight watching the sun sink beneath a crimson horizon far out over the water. At that time we had not yet completed our family and our last dog Sophie was still young and spent her time running on the beach each morning fetching sticks. It all seems so long ago. My baby daughter is now 26,and my dog Sophie has been gone for many years. It sometimes feels that that time was just a dream.

Once we spent our summer on the Llyn Peninsula renting an old farmhouse which had stunning views over Cardigan Bay with the mountains of Snowdonia looming blue in the distance. Once back home in Leeds I joked that if I ever went missing from home I would most certainly be found somewhere on the peninsula. The combination of mountain and sea and the quality of the light over the water were irresistible. For many years the certainty of returning to North Wales the following summer sustained me through cold dark winter months.

After my husband passed away suddenly I knew, almost instinctively that, although I loved Yorkshire, I needed to leave Leeds. I had had enough of landlocked city living and needed some space, and I longed to live somewhere by the sea. My first thought was of moving to North Wales but then, after speaking to friends, I decided that I would go and investigate the possibility of living in Spain. Emigrating to a hot country suddenly appealed to me. I wanted to run away as far as possible from the cold hurt of my loss and so I booked myself a holiday – the first holiday I had ever taken alone. Under the summer sun, with orange groves stretching as far as the eye could see I fell in love with Valencia, the area I had chosen to investigate. I spent my time traveling around the area luxuriating in the heat, swimming in the warm blue sea and enjoying the hospitality and friendliness I encountered. The idea of living in what appeared to be paradise became ever more appealing and so, on my return to England I began to prepare to sell my home.

Before the house finally sold I decided to spend Xmas in Spain. I arrived at the coldest and darkest time of year when the night temperature fell below freezing. Various difficulties became apparent which I had failed to consider in the summer heat. Firstly houses in Spain are built to lose and not retain heat and the villa we had rented for the season was like an icebox at night. A calor gas heater provided the heating and I, with nerve damaged hands, was incapable of actually lifting the gas bottles. Other heating was provided by a fan heater which ate electricity at an alarming rate. The days were warm and sunny – it was even possible to sit out on Xmas day in a tee shirt and celebrate the season with a glass of wine. But the nights were a cold and uncomfortable nightmare. There were problems with the language – I was insufficiently prepared for a life without English speaking neighbours. I drove in Spain but always with my heart in my mouth, being unsure of which way to go at roundabouts and crossroads, misreading road markings, and managing to lose myself on many occasions.

My two children flew in, and they too blew hot and cold over the idea of the move to Spain. True, it might be wonderful and provide them with some kudos having their mother in Spain living in a villa complete with swimming pool where they could invite their friends for summer holidays. However, they could both see that the country was not for me. I looked at the mountains and pined for England. I had never experienced homesickness before and the feeling was devastating. The soil was red; the park had no grass just some trees and a stony path or two. The landscape was dust and rock, resembling a lunar landscape to my eyes attuned to the blue green grass of England. There was no water anywhere and never once did a cloud darken the sky. The sun shone all day every day and I tired of the harsh light and the bright colors. I yearned for England.

I realised, almost as soon as I arrived that I could never live in Spain. My dream, born of desperation and grief was an illusion. I returned home, took my house off the market, and decided to stay in Leeds and make the best of my life there. Shortly after my return I met the man I will soon marry and now find myself living on the Wirral. It is not quite North Wales, but when I walk along the seashore I see the Welsh mountains beckoning from over the River Dee and I am reminded of the holidays I spent there with my late husband and my children. The shore is either beautiful or interesting depending on which way I walk. My late husband was in the merchant navy when I met him and as I watch the tankers and container ships turning slowly into the mouth of the Mersey I think of the sailors on board coming ashore having spent many weeks at sea and I try to remember the stories my husband told me about his seafaring days and his homecomings and I feel a connection with his spirit which I did not feel living in Leeds, even in the house we had shared for so many years.

Shortly after meeting my new partner, and soon after my return from Spain, I was introduced to the beautiful county of Shropshire and we spent a few days at the Long Myndd. I had never been there before, but, standing on top of the Myndd and looking across the green valley before me, I recalled the miserable Xmas I had spent in Spain and finally knew that in returning I had made the right decision. I love living in the UK. I love the green countryside, the hills and hidden valleys, the little country cottages, milltowns, market towns, and villages. I have no desire ever to leave these shores again for longer than a week.

kingcups and lady's smock

2006-05-08T13:38:00.000-07:00

Not far from Riversleigh, on the far side of the railway line are a couple of low-lying fields. This spring, for the first time that I can remember, kingcups have bloomed in their hundreds, their yellow flowers overshadowing the paler lilac coloured lady's smock. After leaving the road, I struggled through the boggy patches, brackish water leaking into my shoes and nettles stinging me viciously, to get these pictures.

After regaining solid ground I realised that I could have taken the pictures without getting wet and stung if I had walked through the neighbouring field ....

For the alphabet project

2006-05-07T18:11:00.000-07:00

The artist's alphabet

The Writer's Alphabet Poem

Authors approach art artlessly
Books blunt bigotry, barabarism
Competitions counter complacency
Editors emasculate egos emphatically
Few find fame’s fetters freely
Grants glitter greedily
Hopes, happiness, hide heartbreakingly
Immense ideas imagined in ink
Journalists juggle jobs judiciously
Kaleidascopic keyboard karma
Language lights lonely landscape
Minds make mellifluous magic
Novels, non-fiction? Notebooks necessary
Oblique observations offend
Place perfect paragraphs poetically
Quaint quatrains queue querulously
Rogue rejections rankle regularly
Trusty typewriter tabulates tyrannically
Uniquely unfortunate unguarded utterances
Value variation, verbally, vocally
Youthful yarns yield yearnings
Xeroxing xanthic xylographs
Zola, Zen, zeitgeist, zero

(we can use any we like, so I used them all!)

a couple of poems

2006-05-07T08:23:00.000-07:00

My creative writing class is now doing a poetry unit (I have not written poetry for, oh, maybe 30 years?)... here are a couple of my first attempts:

Passport

Well worn pages,
Grey crease on a blue folded cover,
Embarrassing photo.
Like an ancient roadmap
Expressions of my wanderlust
As solid occurrences in time.
My passport lets me avoid my life.

---*---*---*---*---

Gone

You were sitting in the noisy restaurant
stabbing at noodles in your soup when you tried to tell me;
our conversation wandering aimlessly,
darting over,
under,
and around
what really needed to be said.
“It’s a great opportunity”
“It’s what I really want to do”
You looked into my eyes for confirmation…
But I was already gone.

In Search of Shangri-La

2006-05-07T05:18:00.000-07:00

In a fertile valley called Shangri-La, beyond the western-Himalayas, a group of coloured pavilions cling to the hillside. In this idyllic setting lives a perfect artistic community. There are no strict rules and the creative people live in peace and harmony. The valley is so remote that only a few have been able to find it.

Le Enchanteur is leading a new Journey of the Heart, along the Serpentine Road towards Shangri-La. The first base is at the Hermitage where travellers will have time to prepare for the long journey, a journey that will take them to The House of the Serpents, The Lodge of the Rainbow Serpent Priestess, Baba Yaga's and many more exotic
places.

Solitude

2006-05-05T03:22:00.000-07:00

Here are two "Fitzgeralds" from
the blog 'Cherita Fitzgerald' --
which has vanished somewhere ...

SEED "I must travel alone"

There are many views of lonely, stark still or quiver moving;

that embrace being 'alone' with 'lonely' -- fearfully perhaps,
but oft confused with solitude and wrapping self in veils of silence.

One can be so lonely in a crowded room,
or shielded in contemplative singularity and hear a thousand songs,
of strangers met tomorrow, yes?
.........................................................................

SEED: "Cloistered in an unlocked cell"

I am told to seek divinity
in secluded solitude --
centered prayer or meditation
by ritual or spontaneous dilution.
Yet I am nothing -- not perfection
except by reflection of your eyes
and the shadow protection
of your soul.
so I will gather in divinely
and open out profoundly
to wait for your footsteps
at the door.

A Room of One's Own

2006-05-04T18:23:00.000-07:00

When I was a child, I had a room of my own. It was small but I didn't realize that at the time. It seemed fine to me. The window looked out on a vacant lot and a house on the other side that was creepy. An old couple lived there, but we rarely saw them The man occasionally left the house , driving his beat up car, never looking left or right. At Halloween kids were afraid to go up to their front door, but a few were dared into doing it. I worried that he was looking out his window into mine, and I think I saw him doing that one night. From then on I closed the blinds even on hot summer nights.

My closet was miniscule and for some reason I always thought I could hid in there if necessary some day. Why I thought that is a mystery.

The rest of the room was ordinary with a vanity and dresser and twin bed against the wall. At night Dad would knock on the wall and say, "Night, night, princess."

I'd respond, "Night, night, Prince."

Eventually that stopped when I entered teen years and Dad was replaced by my boyfriend, not in the next room, but in my life. But that is another story.

In college I had a roommate. During my sophomore year, my boyfriend and I were married and from then on I never again had my own room. I had given this condition some thought before the prompt. My daughters each had their own rooms, but their Dad and I shared one. I envied the wealthy Europeans I saw in movies who had their own rooms that connected so that one could have privacy or intimacy, a great idea.

Now that I have begun meditation, I would love to have a room of my own. I would meditate there, write, read, be me. I think our guest room is soon to undergo severe remodeling. What a refreshing idea.

Life at Riversleigh

2006-05-04T13:40:00.000-07:00

I am settling in now, beginning to unwind at last from the years of grief that brought me to the doors of this house. The place is working its old magic on me, whispers fill my room at night murmuring "peace" and "love."

I can go to my art table and create beautiful images if I so wish. I can sit at my lovely grand piano (its so so long since I had my grand piano in my home - it languishes in a storeroom until my daughter can take it into her home) and play elegant music that soothes me. I read from the endless supply of books - and, joy of joys, - other people have read the same books and I can actually discuss them!

I have had a couple of evenings just sitting on the lawns and gossiping - I love to gossip and the talk here is of a group of travellers in caravans heading into the mountains in the distance. I think they may be connected somehow with Riversleigh - but the management refuse to tell us anything more so we are left to wonder about their mission and to wish them well.

There is a lot of laughter here. In some ways it reminds me of the innocence of childhood, before the world was made evil for me.......the laughter is kind and healing, not the cruel cynical sneering that contemporary comedians label "humour."

Above all there is a feeling of love in this house and that makes me feel safe. Now that I am safe it will be safe to write, to remember.......and when memories overtake me and I am choking back my tears, I will go and sit in the garden and presently I will be joined by friends who will help me recover my smile and who will gently persuade me back to my desk.

Plane Tree Reaching - Riversleigh Manor

2006-05-04T05:55:00.000-07:00

Breathe

2006-05-03T00:04:00.000-07:00

Wandering around the grounds
I looked up and remembered
to breathe...
That is enough
for now.

A Postcard

2006-05-02T22:27:00.000-07:00

Greywing, Lorijayne's carrier pigeon, has brought this postcard from the Land of Standing Stones. It says "Greetings from the Road of the Rainbow Serpent! Despite a night raid by angry pixies, all is going smoothly as we travel. Hugs and Kisses. L. "

L.Gloyd (c) May 2, 2006. Total CGI created in Terragen and enhanced in Photoshop.

Spring - a poem

2006-04-30T20:11:00.000-07:00

The old man and his little granchild walking under blossoms was one of the moments that I was thankfully equipped with my camera.

Snaps

2006-04-30T16:12:00.000-07:00

Don't know why I line our walkways with SnapDragons ...

just do

Wisteria springtime

2006-04-30T08:39:00.000-07:00

May Day - Butterfly Cyclamens

2006-04-30T06:13:00.000-07:00

These beauties just popped up in the Riversleigh

Woodland, so I posted them here. They looked so

much like butterflies I thought I had to show

them around. Happy May Day Travellers!

May Day Celebrations

2006-04-29T00:44:00.000-07:00

The Feast of Valborg and May Day

The Feast of Valborg, on the 30th of April, is often translated as Walpurgis Night.

Normally, Spring is already well established in the southern reaches of the country, while northerns will still have to wait a few weeks longer. Nevertheless, this is the evening ---- swedes welcome in the Spring. The holiday is especially celebrated in university communities. In Uppsala, site of Sweden's oldest university, students gather by the thousands in the afternoon and don their white caps to mark the change of seasons. (Nowdays, students actually only wear these caps on the Feast of Valborg and at other student festivities.) They listen to traditional hymns to the Spring and student songs, to speeches hailing the end of the dark, dank cold winter and the return of the sun and summer greenery. Many parties are held in the evening. Similar traditions have grown up in Sweden's younger universitiy town's too. In Lund, many of the festivities take place the day after, on the first day of May.

The rest of Sweden "sings in the Spring" in similar fashion, often around large community bonfires. Once peculiar to the eastern part of the country, in recent decades the custom of building bonfires has spread throughout central Sweden.

The idea of the Feast of Valborg as the first day of Spring is perhaps most widespread in Swedish towns and cities, while spring traditionally reaches the countryside the following day, especially in the south.

May Day celebrations clearly have a longer history than Valborg. May Day was often the occasion for outdoor picnics, with games and contents of various kinds. Eggs were prominent in May Day games and meals. In modern times, as in other countries, May Day is primarily Labour Day, with parades and speeches by labour leaders and socialist politicans. It was proclaimed an official holiday in 1938.

Author: Ingemar Liman

Translation: Charley Hultén

Ancient Autumn Plane Tree

2006-04-28T00:39:00.000-07:00

Come Home

2006-04-27T02:53:00.000-07:00

For those who seek something more than a house to live in ...

from my book "Henge,Glade and Tiers" about Sakin'el and Tegsh

.............................................

COME HOME

There is a special magick when a house becomes a home, when treasures are installed in a special spot instead of being buried in a memoried box; when each glimpse through a stacking of doorways provides a framed tableau that transcends the planned simple arrangement of chair, basket and vase. Of course, when one has the opportunity to see for another, and to describe the joy of play of light and darting shadows, then the sharing takes on a life of its own. She has shown me so much -- yet artistry you will never behold for a new magick will be found when you are here, my friends. Come and let me know what you see.

From outside one can only see a house, and whether entering as guest or uninvited, you may capture a little of my sense of awe -- and this is surely grand, unless you sadly feel that one embrace tells you very much of me, or life, or why I placed the broken pot just so. Yes, it would simplify our connection if we tumbled love's artifacts together in some 'ticky-tacky' way, or covered any sense of 'work' in piles of unfinished projects. But then, why would you return? It is my chosen task that you may return to Sakin'el again and again to capture a magick moment, an entwining of your fine passion and yearning, to which Em and I might add a stroke of enduring dream. By this we will be known -- not as a brief firefly in the dark.

So, please do not just peek through a window or come only on a stormy night. This place is entranced to have a life of its own with rooms like children whose laughter in more enthralling than sight or name. Perhaps more can be perceived of Sakin'el in silent contemplation that in a hurried dash in which some judgment must apply. I am reminded of an ancient English custom of building houses in a hamlet. Each had but two windows; one looking onto the market square teeming with human life and folly. The other looked out and away -- to other worlds and dreams. The front room was always neatly kept with flowers and hand made shawls and children's crafts. The other view was hardly ever so well kept, filled with life's disarray and even pain. Possibly any order here came from loneliness or avoidance of life's joys -- doubt there were many mirrors there either. Yet, all was safe, for no-one would ever peek through that window out of respect, and possible shame over what their own back room contained. Did a citizen there then present a false view of self, or dream, or touch of love? Or in their simplicity did they recognized that every person has many facets of self, some more polished than others? Which then is the 'real' person; or should it not be enough to recognize that here is a gem in the making.

I am now blessed with another spirit close bound that will be an endless mystery -- a thousand petaled lotus to unfold. What a joyful dance! And this sojourn together will cause me only a small sadness for those who know another but a little and would make any judgment or guess as to who they really are.

faucon

life's goal may be profound and illusive
but today's call is simple.
hear a song,
read a poem
speak some reasonable words.

the scrolls of Eskiyalı

Stolen poetry

2006-04-26T17:45:00.000-07:00

I found this today and thought it would be appropriate here.

---------------------------

A Myth of Devotion
by Louise Gluck

When Hades decided he loved this girl
he built for her a duplicate of earth,
everything the same, down to the meadow,
but with a bed added.

Everything the same, including sunlight,
because it would be hard on a young girl
to go so quickly from bright light to utter darkness

Gradually, he thought, he'd introduce the night,
first as the shadows of fluttering leaves.
Then moon, then stars. Then no moon, no stars.
Let Persephone get used to it slowly.
In the end, he thought, she'd find it comforting.

A replica of earth
except there was love here.
Doesn't everyone want love?

He waited many years,
building a world, watching
Persephone in the meadow.
Persephone, a smeller, a taster.
If you have one appetite, he thought,
you have them all.

Doesn't everyone want to feel in the night
the beloved body, compass, polestar,
to hear the quiet breathing that says
I am alive, that means also
you are alive, because you hear me,
you are here with me. And when one turns,
the other turns--

That's what he felt, the lord of darkness,
looking at the world he had
constructed for Persephone. It never crossed his mind
that there'd be no more smelling here,
certainly no more eating.

Guilt? Terror? The fear of love?
These things he couldn't imagine;
no lover ever imagines them.

He dreams, he wonders what to call this place.
First he thinks: The New Hell. Then: The Garden.
In the end, he decides to name it
Persephone's Girlhood.

A soft light rising above the level meadow,
behind the bed. He takes her in his arms.
He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you

but he thinks
this is a lie, so he says in the end
you're dead, nothing can hurt you
which seems to him
a more promising beginning, more true.

Maya' Portrait - light study

2006-04-25T15:49:00.000-07:00

Maya, in this photo taken Sunday, reminds me of the little girls on biscuit tins of the thirties. Those beautiful brown eyes deep in thought. All that lovely roundness in both her face and her curly blond hair

Riversleigh Trees

2006-04-25T05:25:00.000-07:00

return

2006-04-25T05:01:00.000-07:00

AH,,stepping back into my home away from home is joyous. Life has so many little stumbling blocks which often redirect our actions from what we wish to do but if that were not true perhaps we would loose a degree of appreciation of the little joy in our life. I think I also had better adapt that attitude to the weather. On the way up the path to the manor house from my visible world it actually snowed. That is ironic as this is what I was planning to share with you:

For too many mornings our skies have been gray
but now the sun breaks through the eastern window
and floods my soul with joy.

The mountains glow as the rising sun
filters through the mist and clouds.
And frost the branches of the barren tree
with silver light; "Connection with the divine."

Highlights touch the heads of a pair of blackbirds
greeting daylight with a mission of duty.
He plucking everything useful from the branches
and she plucking and returning to the building site.
I have to smile as I watch their morning goal
as again the little wife does all the work.
Every time he opens his beak to pluck anew
the excellent branch last plucked
floats to earth, unused.

Snow almost all melted,
mountains only snow capped a bit,
barren trees show signs of budding
and birds building their new spring nests.
I do believe we will soon have spring.

A little paint

2006-04-25T02:53:00.000-07:00

Our Manor House , now near a century old,
has a most curious floor plan – by today’s needs.
The entire front of the house is ‘guest friendly’,
and residence would have used the back porch entry.
This gave ready access to kitchen and the staircase
to the three bedrooms, bath and kitchen nook upstairs,
(and a myriad other secret rooms and cozy places).
The main entry has a large covered porch (370 sqft),
in an ‘L” shape that allows a corner door into the ‘parlour’.
This first room sweeps across to the formal dinning side,
together a ‘great area’ 16’ X 30’ with fireplace.
Doors lead into a separate ‘sitting room’ (now a family room),
and the kitchen (16’X16’ with two pantries).

Anyway – I am finally getting around to redoing the front room.
There are many cracks in the ancient ‘lath-plaster’ walls,
and some remnants of water damage on the ceiling.
The windows are fine – fine dark wood frames and original
‘wobble glass’ – so I don’t have to paint those, but care
must be given to protect and seal. There is a wood rail
set all around the room above the windows
that calls for a different color treatment. The added 15”
to the ceiling will remain white, I think; as will the beams
and open spaces of ceiling also cracked here and there.
To hide the patches and irregular texture of repairs,
I have decided to first paint a dark mauve –
then follow with a lighter pale amber using a sponge technique
to replicate wall-paper. I’ve never tired it, though.

The point of this is how I feel – covered with plaster dust,
teetering on ladders – scrapping, sanding, taping …
‘At peace’, that’s what. For this house speaks to me – her name is Tegsh –
and with each stroke and caress she releases some of the love mem’ries
trapped within the walls, and I am taken back to dances, parties –
and laughing children – and a sadness …
that no one else has cared to help her live again.

Tulipmania!

2006-04-24T12:53:00.000-07:00

Hello from Seattle!

The Muse has Struck

2006-04-24T12:36:00.000-07:00

I was in the Salon du Muse, minding my own business, reading a poem, when The Muse struck:

"Once upon a mid-night dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore....."

What? Get real. I am really fed up with this whole "feeling sorry for myself" thing. I want to go shopping instead. My goodness, do you really think I sit around all day waiting for some silly bird to drop in and leave droppings all over my house? No, I am a woman with a charge card so I'm outta here.

Now, where to go? Rodeo Drive and Montana Avenue? No, too high-end for my budget. No, this is not just any ordinary shopping trip. I want to swing around Neptune and have a latte with the space aliens, then I'm going to plunge to the bottom of the Mariana Trench and buy some "glow in the dark" antennae from the Angler Fish. (Won't they look lovely on that new purple hat I just bought on Mars?) Hmmm, then it's on to the Philippines to go shoe shopping with Imelda-- she knows all the good shoe stores. Then, I'll stop in Rio and pick up a glittering costume left over from Carneval. (Won't I be a sight when I put all this on?)

When I'm finished, I'll be thoroughly exhausted and will need to head back home to soak my feet. But, just to be nice and because I actually like that old Raven, first I'll stop at Petco and get him a pound of birdseed and a sparkly new chew-toy.

And then it will be back to those dreary books.

L. Gloyd (c) April 24, 2006

Lady slippers

2006-04-24T01:22:00.000-07:00

Lady slippers
Originally uploaded by FranSb.

I see the child once more
gathering tiny lady slippers
hidden among the grasses
She wondered
if the lady
would find them too
and wear them to the golden
flowers' ball

M - Moon Madness

2006-04-23T16:06:00.001-07:00

MIDNIGHT MUSIC

Music murmurs at midnight,
A medley round the moon.
Making madness for a moment,
The morrow comes too soon.

A million makeshift moments
Make a life, a madman’s rune,
As mysterious as the moon,
The mad and merry music of the moon.

Inimitable Gardner

2006-04-22T21:43:00.000-07:00

Staying behind at Riversleigh, has led me to come across some very incrediable characters. These beautiful ladies reside in a large, refurbished potting shed, on the west side of the property. They spend most of the day light hours quietly working in the numerous gardens, surrounding the manor. As I take my daily strolls through the grounds, they gather close together and speak among each other in low tones, with somewhat of a foreign accent. Rumors inside the house suggest they are sisters with sorted pasts. I would like to introduce myself, but I am also enjoying my splendid aloneness. Perhaps another day. And, I am still searching for the violin player, who eludes me each time I search for that beatuiful sound. Their presense here has inspired a poem for the gardner.

The Inimitable Gardner

Secret soft morning
Brown exotic sanctuary
Stroll beneath a yellow sun

Breathe the garden path
Fresh green spring explodes
Sweet sacred sprouts
burst above, emerge between
a blanket of stone

Rose species listen to the worm
Bees protect lengthly tendrils
which shade the harsh nature winter
Flower berry fruit reflect song

Trowel and clay pot hide in trunks
Spider and ant shine with light
Tranquil rain must come

Dirt becomes a moist bouquet
Where lost Eden,
is an ornament root cellar.

Slumber party!!

2006-04-21T22:42:00.000-07:00

This is what I am bringing! Does anybody actually sleep at a slumber party?

Jammies
Slippers
Socks

Pillow
Sleeping bag
Camera

Smores
Popcorn
Chai

Faery Tarot cards
Ouija Board
Old Records (I hope someone has a record player)
Spooky Stories (although Anita Marie might do the honors here)

Goings on.....

2006-04-21T19:55:00.000-07:00

Greywing, Lorijayne's faithful carrier pigeon, brings a message that there are goings on at the Stream of Mnemosyne........

Slumber party

2006-04-21T06:43:00.000-07:00

Cool! I have my cosy fleecy nightie on and my sheepskin lined slippers - I love the cold nights at Riversleigh.
Movies - I brought along two of my favourites, Chocolat and Pirates of the Caribbean. I know the rest of you won't mind a Johnny Deppfest.
For food, hot chocolate with marshmallows and some chestnuts to roast in the fireplace.

While you slept

2006-04-21T04:35:00.000-07:00

a voice more lightning than gentle wind

I lay here in the Manor swing,
with room for but one when I recline –
but when I sit straight and tall,
there is room for you
to nuzzle close
if you wish.

Forth and back in measured pace,
the shoulder-leaning space is claimed
by caressing mem’ries of pause,
close flickering breath
of ever love
now reclaimed.

I do not swing for gentle peace,
but to listen to the fervent call
of the awesome voice of now,
flash of shadow bright
heard by my soul
and being.

In the broad sweep of human strife,
with turbulent clouds of angry fear –
crash lightning cries of lonely,
hands reaching through tears
sweated by running
away from self
and friendship.

I am pulled up and off once more,
lamp in hand and ready whistled song,
to reach within the torrent
to those open hands
and silent hearts
of yearning.

forth and back,
criss-cross shadows –
listening to the silver thread …

Slumber Party

2006-04-20T10:35:00.000-07:00

Oh! Goody! A slumber party at Gwen and Shiloh's room!

Jammies are easy. My husband gave me flannel Eyore pajamas several years ago. Multiple little Eyores are floating on clouds in a blue summer sky. The trimming is rows of dinky white pom poms. The flannel is worn down to threadbare cotton, soft as skin. The jammies replace a yellow cotton nightshirt sporting tiny blue and white penguins trimmed in baby pink satin cord. He chose the penguin nightshirt when I was shopping for something unabashedly sexy. I was a week away from delivering our first son and felt enormous. I found a lovely robe for the hospital but not a sexy nighty. Unbeknownst to me, he bought the nightshirt to give me later. I loved it. That was almost 20 years ago... that lovely nightshirt has long disintegrated. Perhaps it is resurrected in the Riversleigh laundry...

Movies are easy too. Wuthering Heights. I love the naughty, headstrong Cathy and haunted, brutal Heathcliff. A ghostly love story. Then Jane Eyre or Pride and Prejudice...

And a book or two to give chills. "They Went That-a-Way", the true stories of unusual ways famous and infamous people died. Followed by "After the Funeral" the continuing histories of corpses that did not get to rest in peace. The pieces are short, macabre and hilarious. Fun to read aloud.

Food is easy as well. Chocolate, chocolate, and more chocolate. For libation, root beer frozen around maraschino cherries, served in frosty mugs of root beer.

Riversleigh Chestnut Tree

2006-04-20T00:26:00.000-07:00

The Path of Pain to an Alternate World

2006-04-19T03:03:00.000-07:00

Ronnie sat on the side of the bed staring vacuously into space, but not for long., It was not healthy to let her mind wander, not any more, and it was inconceivable that it would ever be again. she would have to wait until little sister had her shower. Time was not passing very quickly at all, no matter how greatly she needed it to. Ronnie's mouth just inside the lip was swollen and sore from all the biting she had been doing. Pain causing herself to remain distracted from the place, that very dark place which her mind kept wandering back to.

She rocked back and forth trying desperately to think and feel anything but the touch of his skin, the smell of him, even the taste of him. Ronnie had been keeping a pearl hat pin by her bed, the pain of sinking it into her thigh would stop the thought and sensations streaming into her. Life would not be entirely her own until she could control it. She was angry and hurt but not defeated.

In some twisted way it may even have helped that her mother had been less than kind, less than helpful. Her rapist was mother's friend and her response "you just don't want me to have friends" raised her anger to such levels the sadness burned off, instantly and did not come back. The shower stopped running and she put on her dressing gown and slid quickly into the shower, and as she had for the preceding week scrubbed and scrubbed until her skin was raw and all she could smell was the scent of her soap, the one given her as a present from mom because she had admired the illustration on the wrapper of the bar of "Maya". It suited her, because the scent too was aggressive, angry, passionate.

Sleep was fitful, interrupted by sensations of crawling skin and the awful feeling there was someone hiding in the shadows of her room. Ronnie tried praying but it was dissatisfying, she felt disassociated from a god who did not save her. What kind of deity gives a rapist free reign on a girl, and innocent child who does not even have the kindness of a mother to come home to. In the early morning Ronnie was up, stretching, checking out her posture and alignment in the mirror.

Slowly, over a few more weeks the girl in the mirror became Ronnie and Ronnie herself disappeared. The girl looking back at her was a dancer, a graceful slip of girl with no personality of her own. A beautiful creature with complete control over her body, able to keep away pain in favour of beauty. She was alone with her favourite music every moment she could. Her teddy bear was shelved and in that sacred place next to her bed her ballet slippers now were there at night to watch over her.

Ronnie had not liked her life a very long time now, six months for a child is a very long time. Her father sprung it on the family that he had a new job that would take him to the other side of the world and all things familiar, despite all protestations were gone. No more toys, no more school chums, no more relatives or pets. Her mother, always unstable and largely unavailable had become even more so in the months after moving overseas, and her little sister, well she was only three, daddy was either working or dealing with mother and sister. Ronnie was "older" and could manage to spend some time alone.

The only escape left in her entire life was ballet class. concentration and pain to control her body so she would become the perfect instrument for a choreographer to paint with made the escape to the other realm easy. Simply, when the music played and the grippy rosin had been evened out by crushing it into fine powder underfoot her spirit, the indefinable soul driven person inside took over. For as long as the music and the rosin held out she could dance and live in another world where none of this had ever happened, nor ever could.

Ronnie had several months to her immediate goal, an audition. The offer made to her by a choreographer with whom she had taken some master classes was going to become a reality. Every fibre in her body was working only to that goal and nothing else. If she was not totally dedicated before, the attack on her innocent body had made it a certainty, it would happen. Parents were no obstacle, mother was self involved and father was involved with mother's needs and would happily concede whatever it took to make life as easy as possible.

Her school work remained immaculate and done on time, she now spoke English as well as anyone else. Those clever people at the board of education had made it so easy to succeed in this grade because she had done it all before, in dutch, yes, but it had not seriously warranted pulling her back a grade as if she was an idiot. It did seem as if the world was conspiring against her. It could work for her, Ronnie had the determination not to let the bastards win by breaking her spirit, not the school board, not immigration, not her mother, and not her rapist, most definitely not him.

She knew how hard it would be. Her hips, her Flemish hips, were too wide. Though a few months ago she was the right height by now she was a couple of inches over the ideal. Her turnout was barely sufficient and her extension would need a lot of improvement. What her teacher did not know, was that all the discouraging words were not working, Ronnie took all those words and used them to build herself a master plan, it was critique of the most constructive kind.

What was unthinkable was returning to being just Ronnie, a child., that had forever been taken away from her. If her plans for a life in the ballet would fall through she would have to face all the demons at once. Demons such as the impossible role of the virgin bride which this little catholic child would never be. Demons such as the other men who would want to touch her, and were perfectly wonderful people, but she could not bear their touch and would not want them feeling hurt by her revulsion. Perhaps the greatest demon was her anger, which had been building up for months and could take on a life of it's own, she could not let the demons out.

So no matter how her toes hurt and bled it was nothing compared to the pain of having to be "normal", when that ship had sailed and sunk in the harbour, but not before being lit up in flames lapping at every timber and sail. For as long as she could keep dancing, she could be civil to her fellow persons, laugh at their jokes and ignore comments such as "she's stuck up" and "I think her bun might be wound a little too tight". If she could keep on dancing she could be a good daughter and sister. If she kept on dancing she would be tired enough to sleep a few hours from the sheer exhaustion.

Ronnie knew eventually her body, which was clearly wrong for the ballet, wide hips and hyperextended limbs, but it would buy her time. Each passing hour and day would leave the horror of that day, that sweltering summer day pinned under the fat sweaty, hairy heaving bastard far behind. She could envision herself melting into the ground, reassembling as a slight figure in a gauzy skirt, executing perfect fouèttés and seemingly suspended at the top of every jèté so the audience would gasp. Eventually a time would come, a time after the audition, many auditions, many performances, many, many more classes when the sweaty bastard was not even an image anymore, he lived on only in the occasional inexplicable anxiety triggered by a smell or taste or aversion to certain people. Unfortunately the time would come when those perfect fouèttés and jètés were excruciating and another plan needed to be put into place or the demons would do all they could to destroy her. for now Ronnie was dancing, and it was good.

On the Road Again......

2006-04-18T22:43:00.000-07:00

I'm going on my first adventure! I have no idea what I'm supposed to do, but I'm going to hit the road at dawn. I'm headed towards the Faraway Tree. I'm a bit baffled by this tree since neither my library and my bookstore can provide me with the book that tells about it -- it's out of print. So I will have to take the Sybil's word that climbing the tree will get me to where I am supposed to be.

I'm taking my backpack with plenty of bottles of cold, sweet spring water, chocolate and marshmallows for making 'Smores, a copy of D'Aulaire's Book of Greek Myths, my sasparilla walking stick and lots of clean Gypsy underwear (magenta silk and gold lame').

I will be sending back reports via carrier pigeon so stay tuned.............