Sensing Her presence,Hovering nearby—Soft breeze, gentle warmth,
Kissing cheeks;
Wide-eyed daisies,
Strain to see invisible worlds;
Leafy branches stretching wide,
Opening outwards, wanting to touch;
Roots reaching down into
Deep, dark waters,
Black river flowing underground.
Yearning rises from my belly
Taste the wanting on my tongue.
A Ferry Woman Waits by Heather Blakey
The Central Mystery: The Journey to the Island of Ancestors
In this meditation, you will journey to meet an ancestor. Remember that an ancestor is a person from your past, who is no longer living, who has helped shape the person you are today; an ancestor may be a predecessor from your bloodline, a previous incarnation, a person who has given you a meaningful tradition or philosophical basis, such as an adopted relative, a teacher, a mentor. You will not choose who will appear to you and it may be someone you know or do not know. Now prepare for a journey. (Pause)
You stand on Duwamish quay. The night is clear; the waxing moon rises over your shoulder, and you hear the gentle rolling of water past the barges that are lined up in the Duwamish. Board the barge and you will be carried over the sea to the Island of Ancestors by a Ferry Woman. (Pause)
You see an island emerging before you. The ferry woman stops at the shore and you see a grove of apple trees. There is a moonlit path between the trees and you follow it. Ahead is a mound. In the centre of the side is a doorway made of two immense upright stones topped by a massive lintel. There are two torches burning at the door providing light for the entrance into a passageway. At the far end of the passage is a faint red glow. Proceed through a corridor inclining downward. (Pause)
You emerge into a shadowy great hall. In the centre is a hearth with the glowing embers of a fire. Seated before the fire facing away from you is a hooded figure. Across the hearth from this figure is a bench. You circle halfway around the hearth clockwise and sit facing the figure. This is one of your ancestors. Greet that person. (Pause)
You may now ask your ancestor one question. It may be about his/her contributions to your life or your family, it may be to clarify something about yourself, or about your future. (Pause) When you have finished, your ancestor gives you a token of help and guidance. (Pause)
In a fair exchange, your ancestor now asks you a question. Answer as best you can. (Pause) You find that you have a gift for your ancestor. Look at it and present it to your ancestor with thanks. (Pause)
Finish your circuit around the hearth, go behind the ancestor, and pass out of the mound and back along the path. (Pause)
Boarding the barge, you return to Duwamish as the first light of dawn breaks over the eastern horizon. At your own pace, return to the Duwamish Inn bringing your experiences and token with you.
The Enchantress
To arrive and to bring,
the first blossom of spring,
when the southern hemisphere is
just through mid winter, — is astonishing.
To arrive and find the lodgings
so welcoming,
to pay respect to the
forgotten ones.
Pieces found along the way,
collected to form
one again, are laid gently
on the quiet earth.
It was suggested that I post this ‘full on’,
rather than as a comment …. papa
………………………………………………..
AS A HEROINE BORN
I embrace the essential calling to become more of what I am.
I am.
I am alive because I am supposed to be here –
and if that is heroic then I am of that …
I need no involved justification –
do not have to pledge dedication in affirmation to myself.
Not that I don’t need reminders.
I come with memories of another time
— grief — confusion – boundless joy.
I am told, ” Throw them away, clear your mind” –
hardly then a heroine!
Methinks there is no memory that is ever bad –
just see me sad when I could be glad.
So easy to wish to release your heart –
get it on — get past it! Yet I must ask why?
Why can I not cherish this pain with the joy?
Would it not be better to nurture those memories
that silently cry with those that are loudly singing?
Can’t I find a niche in which to place them both
to rest in an honored place? To be a heroine?
I am carved by hard chisel and polishing love.
The chips that may have fallen away during this ’sculpting’
are already ground into the course dust of time.
That which remains is most surely mine, and ever should be.
I cannot deny who I am — where I have been.
My spirit may progress in quick release,
or evolve beyond the blocks of mind,
but my past is what has brought me here.
The key perhaps is to become content,
to seek balance between ‘what was’ with ‘what will be’.
If this takes strength, if this demands courage,
then I dare not throw away the crucible in which I was ground.
Above all else, when I extend my hand
to those in grief, pain and confusion,
I must be able to say, “Been there — done that.”
Only then will I be believed
Only then trusted. Only then authentic.
Only then me – a heroine.
I have arrived at Duwamish Bay. The midnight sun skims over the horizon and the aurora borealis pulses. In the distance I see the Isle of the Ancestors.
Digital Construction: Lori Gloyd (c) July 18, 2006
Anita Marie Moscoso
( Packing Bags )
Here I am, getting ready to start another writing project and getting ready to once again pray that the target I’m trying to hit is as big as the side of an Ocean Liner because I can promise you that no matter how clear and concise the instructions are for this “ Writing Journey” I’ll botch it up.
Like I did this writing exercise at the Soul Food Café where I was suppose to write about bottled emotions and I wrote about bottles (so far so good) that were in a Curio shop and inside of the bottles were tumors and three headed cats and I think a baby alligator with a human face. ( https://anita64.wordpress.com/2006/06/18/the-witch-of-white-ash-mountain/)
What…you wouldn’t have some feeling about seeing that?
Myself, I love that kind of thing. Other people…well, you know most people have delicate sensibilities and wouldn’t like seeing organs on display for fun and profit.
But you’d feel something.
Wouldn’t you?
Oh, and this other time we were suppose to write about taking a journey with a Ferry Woman and learning some kind of truth or wisdom on the trip and I wrote about a woman who killed her husband because of the way he buttered his toast. https://anita64.wordpress.com/2006/06/18/datura-manzanillo-walks-alone/
I justified that one by writing my friend into the beginning of the story (she really does work on a ferry boat). So I thought, “hey it works”.
So before you write me off as a total brain dead idiot I want to assure you I did learn something on that particular ‘journey’.
I learned on that ‘journey’ that life is indeed cheap and that as lame and cliché as this story sounds it’s one of the most popular on my blog so there!
Now, back to the project at hand; as I pack my ‘bags’ for my “Journey” I’m going into it stress free. In real life I will only travel if I can do it with a smile on my lips…I see no reason to change horses midstream and start this journey with a bag full of worries.
I won’t be hearing myself say, “ what if I’m not good enough to write?” (Ha, ask me if I care about that. I happen to READ A LOT and I’m here to tell you that hasn’t stopped about a gazillion books and articles in magazines from being published on any given day of the month)
And I’m determined to be myself; I’m going to write any story that is dumb enough to wander into the black abyss that is my imagination. I’m like one of those predatory animals that weeds out the sick and old and anything not strong enough to run to save it’s own life.
I mean it, if I can catch that sucker…dude that story is MINE.
I know my stories might be lame and they are most definitely weird and some of my nearest and dearest have this look on their faces when they visit me and I know just KNOW they’ve read something I’ve written.
I don’t care because when I write I happen to have a very good time.
I laugh at the gross parts, the bad parts, the titles…you name it. I laugh when I write because I happen to enjoy what I’m doing. I also happen to take what I do very seriously.
Yes, I can hear it now ” sure you do Anita, sure you take writing seriously” Well, it’s true…so there.
There it is in all it’s glory…my travel list.
So I’m set.
What am I taking with me on this journey? What am I packing?
A sense of humor, that’s what I’m packing…and now here’s the ‘note’ I’m leaving on my door.
In the words of the magnificent Ruth Brown:
THIS LITTLE GIRL`S GONE ROCKIN` – Lyrics
I WROTE MY MOM A LETTER AND THIS IS WHAT I SAID…
WELLA WELLA WELLA WELLA WASHED ALL THE DISHES AND I DID A LOT MORE,
I EVEN BOUGHT THE DINNER AT THE GROCERY STORE.
AND NOW, MOM, YOU`LL FIND THE KEY NEXT DOOR,
THIS LITTLE GIRL`S GONE ROCKIN`.
I LEFT SOME BISCUITS FOR THE PUP, I PUT FRESH WATER IN HIS CUP.
AND NOW I`M OFF, I`M GONNA LIVE IT UP, THIS LITTLE GIRL`S GONE ROCKIN`.
WELL, I`LL BE HOME ABOUT TWELVE TONIGHT, AND NOT A MINUTE, MINUTE LATER,
DON`T FORGET THE FRONT DOOR LIGHT, THAT`S ALL FOR NOW, I`LL SEE YOU LATER, GATOR.
YOU`LL FIND EACH THING THAT YOU WANTED DONE, I`M OFF TO MEET THAT SPECIAL ONE.
AND BOY OH BOY WILL WE HAVE FUN,
`CAUSE THIS LITTLE GIRL`S GONE ROCKIN`.
The Ferry Women are gathering in Duwamish ready to take those on the Heroine’s Journey across to the Isle of Ancestors. We just need travellers to reach Duwamish and take up a room at the Duwamish Inn.
Just sign in using the comment tool to let us know that you have reached Duwamish and have found your room at the Duwamish Inn.
The tension of opposites,
the vessel shakes and
quakes, -
There is no room for struggling
in these confines,
change, morph,
did you ever note
the uncommonsense
of compromise?
Sleep, you, and
surrender -
critic become wise.
(copyright Imogen Crest 2006.)
I have re-written this piece from an earlier work to fit the theme
papa………………………………………………………………..
CHANT:
Now again and repeat once been
Noble life withered and forsaken
Shield as thyself from eye and sun
With staff and cloak become as one
No sight by right and silk and stone
Protect and carry pouch alone
In mem’ry’s hand bind shape and wonder
That no man crave almost yonder
A shifting in balance ‘tween expectation and be-ever’ told Aldesheen that the time was near. She settled in the natural haven formed of giant roots and broken granite dragon teeth. There was always such a place near by when a transition was called. Now again and repeat once been. Twice before she had been needed. Twice before the soft leather pouch had frayed and broken — its life withered and forsaken, yet noble for all of that. A new one was prepared by right — it had taken the maiden five years and more to finish. The waiting had been harder — and the fear. For Aldesheen was the third of the line of Worthy, and two more shifts would press her to find another Bearer. For now she could but prepare, shielding the Egg from eye and sun and greed. The ritual must begin.
Her cloak and staff completed the enclosure — less than perfect, more than was needed — yet legend told of a single ray of light — a careless glance. Well, you know the story. If not, ask your ancient grandmother of the Egg of Fittone, but only after The Bearer is far gone and was. The silk scarf was far older that the hunkered girl but served to bind the pebbles into the sockets of her eyes, ‘no sight by right’. By feel alone Aldesheen picked away the final scraps of ‘protection and carry’. Polish — caress — imagine! Then she knew its measure and the crystal treasure was nestled in this new home – a womb. Only now could she recreate the shape and wonder of the Egg between her facing palms. Its memory would be enough to sustain her for the next decade of wandering — or two. Faith had been restored and a true heroine born.
Myth held it was not spectacular in color, but no one who had ever gazed upon it ever wrote a song — just gone. Legend bespoke of light from within, and it might have been called a lens — yet it was always called the Egg — which could only bend and distort reality — creation. How then do we know? You should have guessed. I have been through the warp of the Egg and will make it so – more than myth.
The Egg is a portal, you see — but of course you cannot or you would not be here. To gaze within Fittone is a fixation — not of idea or thought, but of the creation. The Egg just stops, you see, and reality sweeps by in every imagined compass point and azimuth and rate of fury. Thus it can take you anywhere and in. Jump galaxies if you wish, or to the graveside of a friend. Distance is not the question — nor the answer, I’m afraid. It just is! What a wondrous gift. What an immeasurable wealth. What a curse!
Like many bits of magick found or held, there is a flaw within this heart of glass. Your journey can only be ‘almost’ there, my sisters; and when you almost claim success your vision and dreams shift just enough that now is still away. No woman can get what she wants and live, you silly lass, as I. It took me eighty years to return here — hardly called a life; and you would wish to hold this Egg? Quickly, let’s help the poor Aldesheen on her hapless task — and seek a slower way – another path to creation.
Authenticated by le Enchanteur
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