Ever then in Trust (papa)

A chance phrase,
inspired by another’s words –

“and each women will be,
sometime in her life a Ferry Woman
for another — about to make a journey –
not a choice either, perhaps,
but a matter of being”

and I must reflect a bit …

I recently heard a story/riddle about a journey.A woman had to cross the desert to a city six (6) days away, but a person could only carry four (4) day’s water across the unforgiving sands. So she enlisted the aid of some friends who set out with her on the perilous journey. She reached her destination in good health, and no one died during the adventure. How many friends then set out with her to make the result possible?

One answer relevant here would be to take a horse as a friend, as it could carry her and twelve day’s water – but that will not be allowed. Skip the ANSWER is you wish to ponder.

ANSWER: Two friends are all that is required. At the end of the first day each will have three rations left. One friend returns home with one ration, giving the remainder to each continuing traveler, who now have four rations each with which to proceed. At the end of the second day each again will have three rations remaining. The last friend retains two rations in order to return home; giving the other to the traveler who now has four rations to sustain the remaining four days of the journey.

Now consider this to be a journey of the soul, perhaps inward to a new sense of self. This journey may be long and you doubt that you have enough faith (spiritual strength) to sustain you (substitute ‘prayer value’, ‘magick’, ‘luck’, etc. as you wilt) and must call on friends to support you as best they may. They will sacrifice some of their ‘presence’ to sustain your journey, and might even accompany you a bit on the journey – but the final stage must be made alone. This is what the Sisterhood is all about, no?

Yet, this problem is not solvable in the manner of rationing water. The length of the journey is not known – perhaps not even the destination. The ability to transfer, or your ability to accept, spiritual strength is an ‘iffi’ thing. After all, if these things were known this journey would not be of a ‘soulful’ nature, but simply a psychological exercise in value orientation or mental ‘housecleaning’ not requiring either faith or friends.

The key to this riddle, methinks, is found in a true understanding of ‘faith’ – complete trust that whatever you do to help another, or whatever assistance you accept in fine humility, will ALWAYS come back in multitude and quality (unto eternity). The friends that journey with you can gift ALL of the spiritual strength they possess, for their journey home will be replenished in ways unknown – but it must be so, in faith. When you are sustained by such a complete gift of spiritual self from another (and more), then where-ever you arrive is where you are supposed to be, and it must be so, in faith.

The wonder then of a Ferry Woman is in both the selfless giving and the selfless acceptance; and the goal, or distance or vessel is nothing compared with your willingness to grab the oars and row in trust.

Night Ride….SoulSister

Unusually for this time of the year, it was a warm and clear night. There were few clouds in the firmament above, and the full moon shone brightly, casting its reflection and light across the bay. The sea lay quiet and still, and since there was little wind, merely a gentle breeze, the surface of the water had barely a ripple upon it. With only moonlight to light up the path, I found my way to the stables, where, apparently, the Stable Woman awaited. As the stable door loomed closer, the sounds of snorting and stamping of hooves could be heard. Anxiety mounted and quickly overtook the initial sense of excitement. Fear gained the ascendancy about the same time the words ‘’But I have never ridden a horse before’’ floated across my mind. Still some sense or feeling of being pulled along by forces greater than any individual’s will or desire, seemed to be at play on this evening. And so it was that I found myself being helped to mount a huge white horse, a stallion, who exuded such volumes of raw energy that it almost seemed as if I was atop a wild beast and not an animal who had at least being tamed enough to accept human riders. But perhaps not. Perhaps it was rather that this particular horse was condescending to carry me somewhere that I had need of going to. The Stable Woman uttered not a word, merely smiled reassuringly as she handed me the reins. And her smile created an inner response of trust and faith. All at once it became clear that whatever happened on this night, I would return unscathed. Changed perhaps, but unharmed.

As soon as the Stable Woman pulled open the half door she patted the horse on his back, and he took off with such velocity and ferocity that I thought that my body and soul had become disconnected , leaving the former still astride and the latter floating way up high above our heads. After just a few minutes of riding at such speed, my initial fear began to dissipate, gradually turning to a wonderful feeling of excitement and exhilaration. Racing over sand dunes and then across fields and walls and fences, zig-zagging between trees and bushes, and all the time hair and cloak flying behind, the world became a new place. Here and now, on the back of this horse, there was no past, no future, only the eternal now; only the gift of the present. Eventually he stopped on the top of a mountain, and carefully lay down on the ground to allow me to dismount. I slid off and looked around. A wonderful world lay spread out before my eyes, illuminated by the light of the moon; a land of valleys and mountains, meandering field boundaries, streams that flowed into rivers which then headed for the open sea. There was peace and tranquillity on the top of this mountain. I lay down in the long grass beside my companion, and felt his warm breath on my hair. Looking up into the star studded night sky it was as if the whole world was spinning round and round, faster and faster, until in the end I laughed out loud with the sheer delight of it all, and even my new friend seemed to participate in the present joy and mirth of the moment when he nuzzled my back with his nose. I rummaged through the saddle bag and was glad to find some sugar lumps to feed him. We remained out in the dark open until the first fingers of light began to flicker across the sky. Then my stallion began to raise himself from the ground and waited until I had re-mounted him before standing again, and turning, to run back to where we had come from. Yes I went back to where I had begun, merely a few hours beforehand, but although everything appeared to be as it was, yet it all looked different. And it was different, all new again, just as if it were newly minted at the dawn of creation. Freedom had re-birthed me.

Song of the last ferry woman

Drift westward on receding tide

My sail furled no longer strives to reach the shore
There are no boundaries to edge this distant sea

No soft spoken passenger asks a plan or place
Alone with my boat into the setting sun
my wake collects my shadow into night

Burning the Midnight Oil – Tilley Harris

Burning the midnight oil

The nimble fingers of the Stable Women work

preparing the mounts

for those who would ride

the night skies

waiting for the ferrywoman

She waits on the shore,
waiting for the ferry woman
The sound of seagulls screeching overhead
and oars lapping in the water
are all she can hear.
Her heart beats faster as the barges approach
She knows she must wait to be chosen.
Which ferry woman will chose her
and what is the message she bears?
The women alight and slowly walk the line of supplicants
Looking with knowing and wisdom in their gaze.
She raises her chin and makes herself look
You don’t scare me she thinks.
Footsteps pause,
then stop in front of her.
Fathomless eyes look into hers
And she knows it is time.
She has a choice, but no choice.
She cannot refuse this challenge.
It is meant to be.
She returns the gaze
drowning in their depths of love and understanding.
Boarding the barge,
she sits,
The oars lapping in the water,
The seagulls screeching overhead.

Lina

Long slow ride to hatred

Eventually I would have to take action, just not now. As much as I wanted him out of my life, to kill him stood morally against everything I believed in. This was the worst of what he did to me. It was not just sabotaging my jobs so I was unable to go out and work, and have a life. It was not just that he would go as far as setting fire to all my shoes and hiding the car keys from em so I could not have a social life. As hard as all of that was I could take it in stride because I knew some day I would be rid of him.

I had developed a Stepford wife persona who did as she was told to avoid the back hand and the shoving into the wall with his large fatty hand around my throat. As bad as the pain was, as bad as the humiliation of hiding my face from strangers (friends and family were no longer in my life at all except for special occasions like funerals), that was not what had welled up my hatred of him. I despised him, I even feared him, but I did not hate him for it.

My hatred came out of some visceral disgust that over time had developed in me. He rode my every nerve with his bodily habits, like belching, like never changing his sweaty clothes or bathing before we’d make love, for get made love, it was a quick self satisfying fuck these days, we had not ever made love. We were married before we knew how and he’d never bothered to learn. I did eventually find some other experience long ago when he worked on oil rigs in north Africa. He rode my nerves by slurping his coffee, with his snoring, and with his complete indifference to my existence as a human being. For that he would have to pay. As he was killing the very person I was, to kill him, today or tomorrow would be only self defence, not murder. The question was only, when would my last nerve snap.

aletta mes

The Midnight Mare by Gail

Queen Mab is a beautiful big black gypsy mare, 16 hands at the shoulder, with thick feathers that start at the knee and a long dark forelock that covers half her noble head but allows two fine dark eyes to peep through.

O but she’s light as a fairy on those dinner plate hooves,
O but she quick as a whip evading the bridle.

Her coat is blacker than midnight, black as true black, with rainbows of colour hidden in the dark, a flash of ruby red on her rump, the sparkle of sapphires on her shoulder, jade shimmers on her cheek as she shakes her head – the sunlight ripples on her like a cloak.

O but she dances like a ballerina on those dinner plate hooves,
O but she’s quick as a whip when the stallion calls.

Queen Mab takes me on her back, my hands tangled in her flowing dark mane, she won’t be broken to the rein, but she will carry you to worlds where legends grow like apples, where gypsies dance around the fire to the music of tambourines.

O but she springs like a cat on those dinner plate hooves,
O but she’s quick as a whip when the west wind blows.

Queen Mab belongs to no one, only to herself, but she will share the journey with you, she will let you rest against her broad wellsprung ribs when the sun goes down, she will nuzzle you with her big Roman nose and daintily take bread from your hand with her lips feathering across your palm like butterfly kisses.

O but she tip toes through wild violets on those dinner plate hooves,
O but she’s quick as a whip when she smells sugar in my pocket.

Night Ride, Part I– Lori Gloyd

One cannot resist what L’Enchanteur bids, so I made my way down to the stables. It was big and airy and many ears perked up and bright intelligent eyes turned my way as I entered. An elderly woman, small and spry, emerged from a stall with a filled shovel.

“Don’t mind me—doin’ a little housekeeping for my guests….” She disappeared out a side door and came back a moment later, shovel empty.

“Now, what can I do for you, madam?” she chirped.

“I’ve been asked by L’Enchanteur to come here and pick out a horse.”

“Ah, yes. L’Enchanteur—smart lady, don’t you know. But, madam, you should know—you don’t pick the horse, the horse picks you.”

I sighed. “Yes, I’ve had experience with picky horses. My dumb luck I’ll get another ornery one. Just as long as this one doesn’t talk, I’ll be fine.”

“Talk? These horses don’t talk….except one youngin’ in the back. Still tryin’ to figure who his sire is. Odd little bugger. Won’t shut up. Anyway, let me open the stalls and we’ll see what happens.”

The stablewoman moved from stall to stall, tripping the latches and opening them all. Then she and I waited. Just as I was starting to fidget and flashback to school days when I was last to be chosen for a playground team, one horse, a long-legged blue roan, clopped out of the stall and stopped in front of me.

“Ah, Syren—who would have thought her? Well, madam, you will be well pleased if not a bit surprised with this one. No doubt, you’ll have a….wonderful… night ride.” The stablewoman looked a bit nervous and hurriedly scampered off.

“Wait! Night ride? What’s that? I thought I’d come back tomorrow and just take her for a little trot. Hello? Ma’am?”

The stablewoman was out of sight. I stared at Syren for a moment. “Night ride, huh? Can’t be any scarier than a ride on a thunderbird.”

Syren tossed her head and snorted. I think she was laughing at me.

Lori Gloyd © July 25, 2006