The Serpentine Road

Walk with me in the snow...

2006-11-26T21:18:00.000-08:00

I thought you might like to come along

Creative Handprint

2006-07-21T20:07:00.000-07:00

On this journey I have learned..
To make skilly and duff
The ancient, symbolic meaning of serpents
How Chinese pirates lived and died during the third and last great period of power, the years from 1780-1810
About Zheng Yi Sao
About homelessness
About choosing
That I can be mopping the floor at work and swabbing the decks on the Calabar Felonway at the same time
Relinquishment, selflessness is the ultimate power
Skinnydipping in the Ocean of Imagination is always refreshing
The two rules to the creative process:
1. Begin
2. Continue
Fear turns one to stone
Laughing through tears makes rainbows
That believing God is exclusively male is a myth I have lived by, one which blinds me to the infinite glory of God.
Creating is a way of praying
Creating makes pain easier to bear
The biographies of goddesses
That when it is dark the stars appear, although they have been there all along

Impassible-5

2006-06-15T01:32:00.000-07:00

OVER THE CREST

I walk down into the valley
with the Abbey grounds distinct,
and ripples of welcome
from Cher-Lynne
reaching out.

but downhill needs special attention,
and most accidents occur
close to home ...

but I can muse --
........................................................

The Cloak

There is a mantle in the hall,
next to the sword I must foreswear –
but they are perceived the same
by those who live by obfuscation,
or instill confusion for delight,
or submit to fear.

It is noticeably of no worth,
of simple weave and colors sparse –
but hung loose and without guile
it will stop any arrow or blade
with naught but faith in silent breeze,
and integrity.

It is heavy though and itches,
and not meant to be worn forever –
yet its presence and shadow
is of and betwixt my being,
and it ripples with Currents strong,
and eternity.

Beginning the Journey at Last

2006-06-14T08:41:00.001-07:00

I've left behind the skins of my old self
Because how else will I grow?

I step through the doorway to a world far removed from the stage I'd just performed on
I look back at the past selves I have shed, am trying to shed, am trying to leave behind in the surrender box
No doubt some fear, procrastination, dissatisfaction, inferiority complex and depression will follow me wherever I travel
But luckily I can shed as many times as I need to

I'm armed and ready for my journey
As the others are too
We all have our maps and special bags packed with things to help us along the way
Bless the woman who is le Enchanteur, our guide, our motivator and the ignition to our creative fires

I adjust the straps on my bags and smooth my skirt
I check the soles of my boots and estimate that they should last until I reach the House of the Serpent
I spy a strange looking animal watching me from the bushes
And my old self would have been afraid
But I'd been told that this might happen and so I strode confidently up to the beast

She looked at me with wary eyes
As I examined her I couldn't figure out whether I was supposed to climb onto her back or take her reigns
I didn't even know what creature she might be
Something between a horse, a hippopotamus and a bird (wings only)

I started walking along the Serpentine Road
Realising that I was alone with this creature because I'd dawdled (again)
I turned to look at her and she seemed to know what I wanted
She soon caught up and walked beside me, snorting softly and clip clopping at a leisurely pace
I sensed we'd be good travelling companions

Impassible -4

2006-06-13T19:40:00.000-07:00

I have reached the crest,
and am decending into the valley,
no less dangerous ..

heel set, weight back ...

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

Walk in the rain – slowly;
cadence set by spirit balance
and the song you are now singing,
or listening to,
or crafting.

Savor each drop – slowly;
trace rivulets from uncapped brow
to cheek and chin and yearning breast,
or trembling heart,
or chakras.

Join with the flow – slowly;
as some measure of your presence
sloughs away to dribble unseen
but remembered –
cherished.

A flower will grow – slowly;
nourished by your chance passing
that diverted life to one seed alone,
a soft imprint
forever.

Impassible-3

2006-06-12T11:32:00.000-07:00

Brother Tree

I am far from confluence of roads,
those well trod and those less traveled,
and am one with the forest draw and close.
I cannot get lost nor circle about
for home calls to me – and the space at your side;
and the trees understand and will protect me.

The rains came – a squall at sea – but here?
In the meadow I would have fallen
to prayerless knees and muddied despair;
but I stand instead against a brother tree,
embraced and enfolded as if in your arms
to listen to the songs and breath on now.

And of now, there is a debt to pay
as basic as my sense of self and one.
I dance naked beneath the giggling branches
as they release the gift rain in kindness,
giving me in simple measure by right
the fine blessings I could not bear alone.

and so it is with your love, little one –
that which I cannot embrace though folly
you will then shower on me in baby kisses
and thoughts of deep roots and shadow boughs,
that I might have it all – and live again –
but it’s just a tree, and you so far away.

Impassible-2

2006-06-11T04:01:00.000-07:00

THE SEAT

If I had stayed on the road I would never have found it; but the rutted byway was more mud than friendly, so I followed game trails over the ridge. A side path, useless for animal wiles let to a rocky wind-promontory only a slight drift from my inclination. Someone had fixed iron staples into the granite to form a ladder of sorts – curious, as this spot held no grand view nor watch of the road below. I chose to climb.

The top held a cleft protected from the gusting winds that could roll stones uphill. Therein had been constructed a stone bench from which one could see only a single mountain peak to the East – nothing spectacular save a curious saddle like depression at the summit. I closed my eyes and reached out – and in and asked the chiseled stone for answers as there were no trees about. I learned that I must return at dawn. This cut my day short, but gave time for fishing below and a fine watching of owls after sunset, and a soft bed of fir tips and a most persistent frog.

The cold and unforgiving seat was meant for someone of less girth than I, and shorter too methinks, but strangely comforting – like sitting in the palm of a giant hand. The silence was absorbing and the morning mist content in the valley below. And the sun rose! It ascended majestically behind the saddle peak, nestled there and seemed to pause a bit -- but then time was suspended, or moved backwards a knock. I did not breathe at any rate! Down the mountain face were veins of quartz or other crystals – unseen in any lesser view. Each now captured a single ray of GodShine and bent it to its will. Rainbow flashes like trout in a brook – lightning dazzles of searing brilliance – twinkling fireflies like sequins on a Goddess veil. Some flashes seemed to join and form globes of iridescent dance in the air – pulsing ebbs of wonder – bubbles from a spring of EverLight. I sensed sparks scattering from a gigantic hammer striking an anvil, and yearned for the sound – the ringing chimes and jeweled notes. Then gone!

Oh, why am I here and now? Who built this perch – who else knows? Why is there but a single thought in my mind as I walk the lonely trails? –

“As this is made, so then are thee!”

protection against the perils of forgetfulness

2006-06-10T04:15:00.000-07:00

Here is a necklace of gingko leaves strung on a cord. Gingko possesses powers to aid those suffering from forgetfulness.

In certain circumstances it may even be necessary to drink a couple of drops of Essence of Lethe when foes try to wipe your memory

creative handprint

2006-06-10T04:14:00.000-07:00

Descansos and journey of the heart

2006-06-09T11:22:00.000-07:00

My body is marked by the scars of descansos: a simple childhood fall resulting in an awkward break requiring pinning. The scar on my keloid skin as livid now as it was 40 years ago, more like the weal from a burn. A fall from a moving bus and 6 stitches in my head. Two scars track across my belly: removal of a poisoned appendix and subsequent abcesses. The second and most painful in all senses: an emergency operation to remove both fallopian tubes. “I’m sorry you won’t be able to have children, except by IVF” said the gynaecologist the next day. All potential for creating new life gone with the cut of the knife. Attempts at IVF resulted in nothing but misery followed by acceptance and finally by the finding of new paths of creativity – a burgeoning interest in amateur dramatics and theatrical workshops. Voice workshops with Barb on whose body are tattooed a number of runes – a permanent record of events that have marked her. Watching over the building of our new house and being able to start a garden from scratch; learning to play the piano again, albeit badly, after a gap of 35 years; singing in a choir; reacting to creative stimuli and trying my hand at writing and artworks; traveling and travel journals, digital photography; learning a new language; explorations of new worlds.

Journey of the heart

Updated and revised version of a letter I wrote to the woman I was 10 years ago (now 20 years ago).

My dear,

20 years have passed and you have experienced much in that time.

You have become a self-assured woman who has overcome the disappointment of not being able to have children and has, instead, enjoyed the company of a number of cats. You have discovered that, with the increased amount of free time available through not having had children, you have been able to enrich your personal and cultural life. You have met people of different nationalities and have learned to love their countries, languages, music, food and wine.

After moving abroad, you settled in so quickly that you decided to sell your old house and build a new one, near the city but in the countryside, something that you would never have been able to do if you had stayed put and you had all the fun and hard work of creating a garden from scratch. Blood, sweat and tears and all that.

In your professional life you weighed up the pros and cons of making a career and decided that there were more important things. You have been in the same job now for 15 years – together with your colleague you have worked out a good modus operandi and the work is autonomous. It can be difficult and, at times, unpleasant but you work well and enjoy it.

On the negative side there is not too much to say. Circumstances have taken you away from your family and a number of close friends whom you still miss. Your sister lives in the U.S. but you usually manage to meet up with her and her family every couple of years. Your brother has settled down and married and lives close to your parents – a weight off your mind as your parents are now in their mid eighties.

People say you have changed a lot since coming here. Perhaps you didn’t notice at first but now, with hindsight and the wisdom that has come from experience, you know that it is true. You are more self-assured and confident in what you do. You have gained a certain serenity from having come close to death on two occasions and you know that life is too short to play with.

If you have any regrets it is because you have not always had the courage to say certain things to certain people and have not taken those decisions that would have turned your life upside down. Was it because of cowardice or because, deep down, you knew it would be better to stay as you were. Perhaps you will never know and, in the meantime, much water has flowed under the bridge.

I hope that your life will continue to be as peaceful as you would wish and know that I am happy for you.

Impassible-1

2006-06-09T02:42:00.000-07:00

BRIDGE

I was curious to discover why the pass is described as ‘impassible’, as I have encountered no obstacle not easily circumvented or leaped, and a donkey would have no problems. A cart might not pass to be sure, as I discovered at a bridge called “The Span.” The name was apt in intent, for the seething stream cut deep in the granite, though never too wide. The bridge was nothing now but a pile of broken timbers, mostly swept away in the Spring thaw. A pleasant spot, actually, except that the opposing lip was twenty feet away with anchoring boulders half that below. There were handhold enough for a man to pass, but a cart was something else.

Two carts there were – grinning at each other from sides close yet so far. Two draft horses were likewise hobbled amiably on each side; and a lone merchant sat in the shade, with a strung bow close at hand. We shared a bit of cheese and fruit and I learned of his predicament. Twice each year he and another merchant met at The Span with a cart of goods. The one from the Bay swelled with goods expected at the Abbey, while the upland one returned crafts and specials of the forest. The merchants would trade carts at this point, to return home with their own horses and half the journey, to settle later any difference in value. Alas, nature directed this trade was not to be, and neither merchant was disposed to portage the goods across the defile by hand.

Thus it was that Tom stayed here to guard the goods while Samile returned to the village to hire laborers to rebuild the bridge. However, both had agreed that if a group of willing persons came along, they could be put to work immediately, with a bag of silver ready for payment for those who would trade the carts as planned. “This I will do for you,” offered my portly, crippled self. Laughter was the only reply, but I set myself to the task.

There were two logs of length about fifteen feet that I lashed to the wheels of the cart backed up to the nearside edge, secured of course with sturdy ropes of which there was plenty. The other ends extended into the center of the stream. Next, I climbed up two winsome firs and affixed ropes to the tops. These I bent slightly and secured to the back of the cart on either side. More ropes now led across the gap to the other side, where I borrowed the use of a single horse. Slowly we took up the slack.

The cart would have fallen into the stream save for the lever branches. Instead, the cart rose into the air on stilts – held in brake by the bending trees soon doubled like bows on the draw. The cart quivered at midpoint – then descended slowing to my side to settle without a sound. With the tree ropes bound fast, I freed the cart, towing it to safety with the second horse. Then I moved the other cart into place and again affixed the log supports to its wheels as before. With tethers all in place, my brilliant steed backed up ever slowly, allowing the cocked trees to pull back with steady hand. This cart too rose in the air, hesitated – and dropped slowly to the first side. The amazed merchant would have helped gather up the ropes, but I wished full compensation, knowing full well some poorish folk who could use the silver coins. All of this was quickly done, but a couple of hours delay from my wanderings.

“But what will I tell my friend?” asked he who now had to await the other merchant’s return before he could venture home.

“Always tell the truth,” said I. “Tell then that an old man caused the carts to fly across the stream by magick, for while the use of wits instead of brawn is not magickal at all, the willingness to greet any challenge as done, surely is!”

“They will not believe me!” murmured the merchant.

“Such is often the fate of truth. And you then will be safe to hold this knowledge until another time where it might serve you well. Consider it a gift – and an obligation to use it well.”

It was my gift to sleep well that night.

for Fran on her Birthday

2006-06-07T18:36:00.000-07:00

As I walk Along

2006-06-03T18:16:00.000-07:00

I muse about the responses I received,
on and off blog,
about my plight and quest ...
enough though to give me confidence
to make up a story ...

Me and Will

I didn’t drive yet, but knew a lot about cars, which is why Will let me wash his 1938 Buick that didn’t need it. He wouldn’t let me wash his 1953 Roadster, which did need it – said he had to do that himself. So I learned a bit about people. Truth is, I seemed to be the only kid around who liked to listen to the stories old folk tell – and didn’t care much if I could tell which were true and which were funnin’. He was 93 at the time and still driving. He had the first drivers license in the State of Nevada in 1906 and had never had an accident up till 1958 – can’t tell about tomorrow.

His wife ‘Misses’ was a tad younger and didn’t tell many stories – just made things; scarves, doilies, mittens. These told stories in a different way, I guess, but it took me years to realize it. Instead, she paid me to do simple chores and tell her stories. Her’s were real tasks, though – washing low windows and high shelves beyond her reach. And sweeping the basement. That I would have done for free just for the company of wonderful things stored there. I could write a book about ‘em – maybe I will. Anyway, it surprised me a bit when she asked if I would come to the sewing room after Will had left for the store. She made special request – best in my life maybe, leastwise at fourteen. I just touched her hand and left.

I told my parents what I was going to do – didn’t ask. I arranged for my brother to handle my paper route and paid in advance. Then, Tuesday morning at 5:30AM, Will got into his Roadster preparing to leave on a trip. I got in beside him. He stared a bit, but didn’t say anything, then glanced at the kitchen window. She was there. We drove off, alone on the street. “I was wondering why she finally trusted me to go,” he stated firmly. Afraid I’d fall in a hole and lie helpless, I guess. Never had a broken bone I couldn’t splint. We’ll stop for pancakes in ‘bout an hour.” And that’s how I came to be with Will, and to be the one with the secret.

I’ll skip over all the stories about ‘what used to be in that building’, and ‘the trouble with this pass before they paved it’ sort of thing, and whittle down to those that relate to the ‘Lens’. Maybe I’m leaving the best part out, but this is a short story, after all. Back in the 1890’s, Will was a prospector and got involved in a couple of important digs. In ’98 outside of Goldfield, he and a friend ‘pick and shoveled’ sixteen hours a day for three months with nothing but beans, jackrabbit, and water cress. They pulled in three wagons of fine ore and shared more than a million dollars – back when a dollar bought a suit of cloths. Two years later he had little left, mostly from grub-staking friends. Said he had no need for hard money except to help folks. Then he got married and decided to take a regular job. Everyone respected him, and at six two by 230 he was an ideal foreman. There was a new gold vein being opened up – a promising mother load. Overnight about 6,000 men were camping under juniper brush ready to work continuous twelve on twelve off shifts in the tunnels. No machinery, no safety equipment, no excuses. They worked on solid rock with carbide lamps of their heads. Old Will chanted the rhythm of the mine, “whang, twist, step, set.” Inch by inch, groan by groan they’d drive the drills six feet in for blasting – except when they hit the green! The drill would vanish with the ‘whang’, while ‘hammer’ and ‘set’ collided in warning shout. The green was soft, and sticky and rankled in the lunges when you breathed. No one liked the green.

It was an amazement how Will could drive and play three different characters at once – take me back to a time fifty years gone – to a place drawing closer every minute. He was returning to the mines and the green. Turns out, most of Will’s job was supervising construction of special scaffolding around the soft layers of gray-green deposits. Will knew it was copper ore and had it assayed for poisonous impurities – low grade, worthless and dangerous. Thousand year old water sometimes leached out onto the floor to cause slips and falls. Everyone cursed the green – all twenty six shafts had them – bad luck to find them weaving through the rich quartz ore. Two and a half years and it was done. Hundreds of millions of dollars of gold taken, tunnels boarded up – a ghost town over night. Richer than most, quickly forgotten. Except by Will.

Will had to wait fifty years because old claims were set by time, some 50, some 75 years. New laws required yearly working of a claim or forfeit. Not these – ‘grandfathered’ in. It didn’t matter that Will didn’t want the gold still hidden there. During the years he researched the claims and knew when each would expire. He placed the sample bottles from the twenty-six shafts like chess pieces on a gigantic board, and drew an imagined map of the vein of copper resting there. He described it as a lens, thicker in some places than others, but always present, “A little longer than round,” he said. I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. He chatted about it as something he could hold in his hand and stroke – like a clam shell maybe. “’Course, I don’t know how big she really is,” he laughed. Maybe you can tell me.

That afternoon he scrapped away piled sand from hidden boards. No one watched – no footsteps had passed by for years, telling from the rain drop pocked sand. “Six should be enough,” he said, and we went into fearsome maws of lonely memories. I wasn’t afraid, exactly, but felt a chill at the thought of being buried alive and no one knowing – you understand. Sometimes we went down thirty feet – sometime a hundred. Each time we found the green, a ribbon winding through every level and angle – sometimes only a few feet high, sometimes fifty feet or more on several levels. Will had a map with little ‘X’s on it. We went down in eight holes in all, confirming and adding to his sketch. In the four mines around the edge the vein was high – extending into imagination alone. We covered the holes back up and drove back to a small town and single room hotel. Food was good though. He didn’t talk much that night.

Next morning we walked forever – pacing from one rock pile to another, picking up old tobacco cans along the way. On six points he stuffed some papers into the cans and we buried them with boulders. After lunch we drove to some distant points and he placed four more. In town, he had some papers witnessed and left at the BLM office. We started back towards home, but he stopped and got out to look at the mountain range where the ‘Lens’ was resting. “Just once,” he whispered, “I wanted to be the richest man on earth.” On the way home he told me the rest.

“There is no way to get to that ore right now,” he chuckled. “Too expensive to remove the overbear and it’s too low grade from tunnel mining. It’s going to have to be an open pit like over at Ruth, except that the part I staked is 20% bigger and 4% richer. I could only stake 600 feet beyond what I could see – that’s ‘vein’ law. Copper is ‘bout eighty cents a pound right now – just doesn’t balance out, especially since there is no water here. Someday that price is going to climb – someday there’s going to be a need for that copper lens. I won’t see it – maybe you will. Hope you see these riches do some good.”

I didn’t think much of it, really – just glad to be along. Will died the next year and I am now three thousand miles away. But I’ve done some checking. The Ruth pit produced 4.5 billion pounds of refined copper, plus as much in other ores. If Will’s estimates are right, the Lens holds more than six billion pounds – maybe a lot more. I reach out in mind and spirit and see Will holding that Copper Lens in his hands – a lot bigger – just a giant shield to ward against pain and hunger. Copper is approaching $4.00 per pound. Recon Will might have been the world’s first trillionaire. At least his heart was that big.

I’ve started putting some ‘X’s on a napkin. “Yes, Will,” I remember where it is.

marked out heart

2006-05-31T11:04:00.000-07:00

"Of course you know it isn't going to be that easy," the bees buzz. As I'd now shed my skin, they are free to fly around me for the first time. I am touched that they don't make a big deal out of this, or berate me for hiding them from view. They seem to understand that our symbiosis is not an easy one for me.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Well, walking naked in the world is not easy for humans, never has been," they explain. They are happy to let their wings buzz freely, and sit quietly on my shoulders, my skin as I walk.

"Humans who take such risks have been prone to ridicule and misunderstanding, and some have even been thrown into jail," they say.

"I take your point my dear hive, but this is a different place, and my nakedness is more about the opening of my heart than anything else," I say.

"We were just getting to that actually...don't you think we know you by now?"

I wonder what they mean. It's true, the bees have always been with me. Or almost always. They made their appearance as I came into puberty. It took me years to understand my relationship with them, long hard years that resulted in stings, rashes, battles that left me scarred. And then, after the first six year cycle, falling in love, honey released through my skin, I understood. They knew my heart better than anyone.

"You do understand what's coming, what's involved?"

I stop on my path, my first faltering step ever since I started the journey.

The mapping of my heart.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
When I sat down to do this, I thought I knew what the outcome would be. I thought it would be about the heart breaks, I was prepared to write about ex-lovers and wrenched goodbyes and premature endings. Nothing prepared me for what actually happened. First I drew a picture, and it didn't turn out like I expected, but then I knew that it was true, because that's just what life is like. I studied it and realised it looked like the surface of a moon, marked out by craters and spots.

I knew I had to take a deeper look, and decided to do a word map of my heart. Inspired by the suggestion below by Faucon of Sakinel, I typed words at random on a blank sheet of paper. Then I freewrote responses to each word. Imagine my surprise when it turned out that most of what I wrote was about my mother. My heart seemed to be all about her. And what I was writing was not pretty. I got negative, dark, angry. But I made sure I ended in a good place. I made sure I ended with the words opening, doors, path, grace, love, heart, now. Because that is where I am.

So it's turned out to be both map and unburdening, which I now offer to the Rainbow Priestess on this humbling journey.

Crossing the Threshold

2006-05-30T18:04:00.000-07:00

Any event that occurs at a threshold becomes an omen, a sign. As I come into my own I become much more aware of borders, thresholds, and liminality, the in-between state where things change shape. Like a cat approaching a door, I become very careful of the images that emerge from this in-between state, where, literally anything may happen. The threshold may be the first step out of the door, the beginning of a journey, the passage from one stage of life to another, the transition from sleep to waking, from the known world to the unknown, the beginning of a relationship, the approach to a crossroads. All are a dark door or portal into the unknown and images that emerge at this time are charged with importance.

Over time I have cultivated a stream of consciousness that calls to an awareness in the events of my everyday life. The two thresholds I cross everyday are the border from sleep to waking and the threshold of the house. Upon waking I take the time to remember the last images I had as I move into the day. Similarly, crossing the threshold of my home I become aware of any happening or image that reaches out to me, that strikes my attention. I have learned to carry these images with me to see how they connect with events as they unfold in my daily life. In turn, I entertain these images and let the connections emerge, allowing my intuition to unfold.

Gretchen (c)

mirrored selves

2006-05-28T19:01:00.000-07:00

shedding the skin

2006-05-28T11:38:00.000-07:00

As I set out on this road that beckons me, I prepare myself for the journey like I have prepared for no other. I may be a seasoned traveller, have a nomadic heritage, but this isn’t a journey like others have been. On this path, I will not need to pack up all my belongings, taking the weight of my life with me, to set up home elsewhere. I will not be asked to go somewhere against my will, against my own desire. I will have choices, starting from right now. And best of all, I really can travel light. I have always had hope and excitement at the start of every journey, but I have also had a stubborn determination to forge ahead, trampling all the while on everything that has gone before, lest the grief, the sadness, those feelings I should have let myself experience, held me back. And I’ve had the burden of what awaits me to face, the expectations of others, a new group of new faces. So I’ve learned over the years to wear a mask, to be as far as possible what others expect of me, to hide the flaws, hide the scars, hide the darkness, to be the person that will elicit smiles, friendliness, the person who fits in. Not on this journey. On this journey, I will leave this mask, which has indeed become like a skin, behind in the surrender box. It may have served me before, but it does not belong on this journey. On this journey, I will set out naked and free to be the person I am.

A Map To Guide Us

2006-05-25T16:56:00.000-07:00

Lori has been doggedly mapping our journey and by George she has it now. We all know that more will detail will need to be shown on the map, and we are still to locate the Cave of the Ancients, but this will be a boon to any confused traveller.

After the Surrender

2006-05-24T07:29:00.000-07:00

I'd just dumped my timidity and fear in the surrender box but when the painted tangle of snakes on the door began to writhe, I passed through very quickly and did not look back.

"Ah, sunlight!" I found myself sighing in relief.

"They were just trying to get a rise out of you," rabbit offered, but I noticed it gave a furtive little shiver.

"Will you be coming with me?" I was surprised to see it still by my side.

"Uh, well, I guess that's up to you and your ride," it answered as we dodged out of the way of a camel who'd nearly plowed into us. Several dromedaries and twenty or so braying donkeys were milling about the wide roadway trying to connect with excited tour members. I noticed a few old friends among the many new faces, but conversation was impossible amid the noise and chaos of people, animals and belongings.

"Who ya' looking for?" my new friend asked.

"Oh, someone who's not here, I guess. I traveled with Geraldine last year and I'd so love to see her again."

"She's uh, out to here right now," it told me, sitting and patting it's belly,” but her daughter's around somewhere, I just saw her hat." Rabbit sat tall, all of fifteen inches or so and scanned the crowd.

"Georgina?" The moment I called, an adorable little jenny in a straw hat with red flowers whinnied and pushed her way through the crowd toward me. "Oh, my gosh, you look just like your mother! How is she?"

"I hope not, " she giggled, "she's having twins, but she's content and told me to look for you. Hey, Belinda!"

"Hey, Georgie Girl, first trip for le enchanteur, whoo hoo, this should be fun!"

I was wrapping my mind around "Belinda" as a most unlikely name for this feisty rabbit, when suddenly the noise ceased, the chaos evaporated, and we three remained alone with nothing but the dusty road serpentining into the distance. Poor Georgina looked about to faint and I felt a bit dizzy, but rabbit was grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

"That was so cool!" it said, thumping its' back foot in exuberance and breaking into song, "On the road again, it feels so good to be on the road. . . . . . . . "

This was going to be one interesting trip!

Blank Map

2006-05-23T05:07:00.000-07:00

There is a special excercise of self-discovery --
useful for mapping heart, soul or even dilusions.

Take a single piece of white paper and a good pen.
Sit somewhere comfortable and isolated,
perhaps outside 'neath a tree.

When you put pen to paper you must write
NON-STOP until the entire sheet is full --
never lifting the pen or editing your thoughts --
just let it flow. Later, look at this flow of ideas,
but also images formed by the shape of the lines,

like inkblots, or
smudges on your mirror.

My Heart's Map.

2006-05-23T02:48:00.000-07:00

The Map of My Heart is as old as I am, but like me, it is a work in progress. Let's be honest, the details really are of no interest to anyone else, except its owner. It has always been around: the idea, the possibility, hovering just out of my reach at first. No paper quite able to capture the fine veined and veiled lines. No pencils of just the right hue...not that I was sure what that hue could possibly be.

Then one day, paper of exactly the right colour and texture floated in through my window. "Writing for Wellbeing", it cryptically stated, and landed on my desk. I recognised it immediately, and that is the paper I have drawn my map on. Under a hitherto stranger's skilful and guiding hand, one never critical of the pens I chose, and always enthusiastic even when the colours clashed...I was able to bring the details of my heart into focus. Create a map covered with the story of my life. A map that anchors my past and guides me into the future.

The lines at first were tentative, firming up with practice. Exploding into colour as I reached for a variety of unaccustomed tints and gained confidence with the outcome. I wear this heart on my sleeve now and occasionally a stranger brushing by smudges it or tears a corner off. But I stick it back together and relish the contentment it brings my life.

THANK YOU HEATHER BLAKEY.

Mapping My Heart

2006-05-22T14:14:00.000-07:00

I imagine my heart is a mountainous place, much like the Blue Ridge I love. The hills are rolling up and down, some with deep valleys and some just shallow coves. They aren't craggy mountains, they have been worn smooth by time. In its most alive seasons, my heart is full of color- brights and deeps. In the resting time, maybe the dark time, my heart is silent. I'd rather be in the alive time, but I realize that the resting time is necessary for me to live. All part of the cycle.

My heart is green in the summer, juicy and vibrant, even the hard parts become beautiful, scars growing over the bad places carved out over the years. Little caves in the mountains house the skeletons of my life, the ones I don't want to see but have trouble letting go of. Those skeletons are buried, but sometimes when I am trekking through my heart, I stumble across a sharp bone and cut myself. It would probably be easier if I got rid of the bones in the rivers of my heart, let the water carry them away, but then how would I remember what the skeleton taught me when it was a living thing? Would I forget the lesson, the feeling of each scar created?

To get to the high parts of the mountains, the scenic vistas, I have to climb, sometimes hard, sometimes in and out of the caves. But it is so worth it- the high parts. From the top I can see the happiest days in the past, the joyous days to the future, and then parts of my heart that make the climb a requirement on the bad days.When the trekking is hard, I cling to trees for my life, wishing that I could have just stayed at the bottom, hiding in the lushness. Sometimes I let others trek with me through my heart- because I want them to or because I need their help along the way. But mostly I trek along, because I don't want them to get hurt in the caves or slide down the mountains as I look on helplessly. It's a dedicated climber that can make it through the forest to the top of the mountains of my heart.

The life breathes all around me, growing my heart,even as the craggy pieces of a skeleton may poke me along the way.

I like to think my heart is growing, breathing, becoming vibrant and then sleeping as the seasons do. I need those dead things to make the growth happen. Without death, life will not continue.

Walls

2006-05-22T00:22:00.000-07:00

Day by day
brick by brick
a wall was created
that enclosed my heart

Night by night
brick by brick
I mourned the loss
of my innocence

Day into night
night into day
the wall came down
to create a bridge

Heart Map

2006-05-21T22:55:00.000-07:00

Prompt: Make a map of your heart as proof of identity so that you may pass through the gates into the House of the Serpents.

I have no heart to speak of, my heart is small, soon I will be heartless.
Piece after piece it has been given away, carried off, pulled from its scaffolding, torn away, nerves still attached. Each one a cable through which messages propagate or not, from giver to taker down through the years and back again. When I was young and stingy, each piece was small and subject to much debate. I remember giving such a morsel to a teacher, who placed it on her desk among the others, where it sat neglected until I stole it back at the end of term without her even noticing. I took it home and gave it to my dog, and he cherished it and gave me most of his in return.....

...........My donkey has no name, at least it is kept from me. It took a while, but finally I figured it out....
Like this beast I have no true identity. Through all these years, my inner voice, checked from free expression. Not loss of identity, rather individuality never found. Never time, it was not a priority. Oh sure, I carved out a place in society by relinquishing 'frivolous' pleasures to concentrate on studies, career, livelihood, and the needs and preferences of others. One-by one, the choices that mold a unique persona have been stripped away.
One day, not very long ago, I awoke in the realization that my whole lifetime could pass in personal anonymity. Somehow, I managed to find a remnant of myself, seized upon it and asked, "What would you wish to do, more than anything else in the world?"
The answer came swiftly and I was shocked: "To learn to write expressively."
I never would have guessed it in a thousand years.
How I came to find Soul Food, this animal, and this pathway is an unfolded mystery.
Perhaps I am doomed to linger at the gate forever.

Patience and Sox

2006-05-21T16:26:00.000-07:00

"She's gone!"
"Where?"

The donkey and the dog looked at each other in alarm.
"You don;t think........?"

Patience looked out to sea where a ship was disappearing into the distance. Sox nodded.
"Just like that. Who'd have thought it?"

The two animals stood, folornly, surveying what had been their campsite.
"S'psose this is the end of our quest."

Patience let her head droop a little, and Sox licked the tear that had fallen down the donkey's muzzle. The animals stood until the ship had completely vanished and turned into the forest.
"Where now?" asked Sox, breathelessly returning from chasing a squirrel. The donkey did not reply but continued to plod miserably onwards. They made slow progress, the woods seemed to grow thicker and thicker around them, and several times they had to turn back and retrace their steps to regain the path.

Several hours later, a raven flew overhead and called out to them to follow him. He would help them find food and water. Never have a donkey and a dog been more grateful to see a raven. Patience brayed with delight and Sox ran around, chasing her tail in joy.

The two animals came into a clearing where another donkey was having ....bagels???
"Evening," muttered the donkey, spitting crumbs in their direction.
"Oh good evening," said Patience, politely.
"Don't stand on ceremony," said the strange donkey, " there are bagels enough for everyone so go and help yourself."

When Patience and Sox had eaten enough, they turned to the donkey they had just met.
"I'm Albert," he told them. "You two are far too well behaved and polite. Your lady has gone on a ship to learn to listen ......Follow me but don;t get too close in case there are rules about two donkeys to a human. If you come with me we'll get where we're going.."
"Which is where?" asked Patience politely
"Going going....going walkies," shouted Sox, rushing around excitedly.
"Mind your own business madam."

Albert ambled off and Patience and Sox followed but at a distance. They were safe. They would find their beloved mistress again. And - she would know what they were talking about. Perfect. Or was it????