Trouble in the Gypsy Camp

The Lermurian Gypsies were camped in a glade near the lavender fields. The sweet heavy scent of lavender and the soft droning of bees hung over the scene. Lemuria is full of exquisite camp sites but this one was even lovelier than most. A clear stream rippled through the glade and the caravans were gathered near its banks.
I found a pleasant spot under a tree and loosed Tinker from his traces. He ran off, to be greeted by the other horses with squeals and high kicks. But he is welcome among them, and soon they all settle down to cropping the lush green grass.
But to me, something was not quite right. There was no communal campfire burning, only traces of one long dead. Where were the gypsies, and the children who are always running about? I started preparing a pot of tea, and fried some bacon and puff scones on a hastily made fire. Perhaps there was a fair on nearby, and they had all gone to sell their wares.
I was pouring another cup of tea when one of the caravan doors opened and an old woman stepped out.
“Would ye have a spare cup?” she asked.
I nodded and fetched another cup. This woman was very old indeed, and she wore the Green Skirt, a mark of high respect among the gypsies. It meant she was a wise woman, and I recognized her as an ancient aunt of Lavengro, by the name of Callista.
“Where is everyone,” I asked, as she sipped her tea. “Is there a fair in town?”
“No.” She gazed at me sadly, a world of trouble in her eyes. “No, there is sore trouble here now. Our King, the Great Lavengro, has been taken from us.”
My heart leapt with shock - “oh, surely not! He was so young - “
Callista shook her head impatiently. “No, not passed over - taken from us. Taken by the Dragon Queen, to be her consort.”
I must admit my first instinct was to laugh - I could not imagine Lavengro being forced to be anyone’s consort. He is a fiercely independent man. But this was a woman of the Green Skirt - she would not be jesting with me about anything so serious.
“Just a few nights ago, her dragon guards came and took him from his varda - ” she pointed with a withered hand to the magnificent green trailer that was Lavengro’s home - “she has put him under a spell, and concealed him from us. All able gypsies are out searching for him. But there has been no word, no news.”
“Who is this Dragon Queen?” I asked. “I have never heard of her.”
“They say she comes from a far off land in the east, driven out by those who could bear no more of her cruel excesses,” the old woman said.
Le Enchanteur had said nothing about all this, I thought. I remembered the bag she had given me, with its assortment of strange items - a packet of dream seeds, a gaudy pair of spectacles, a candlestick, a tiny anchor, a medallion with the imprint of a unicorn and a set of wings. Once before I had carried these things, and found them amazingly useful.
As usual, she had also put another item in the pouch - something that was meant just for me and that I would discover when the time was right.
But Le Enchanteur knew me well, and knew I would head for the gypsies first, and so hear of Lavengro’s kidnapping. Obviously this was my own quest, and somehow it, and Le Enchanteur’s quest, were one.
“I will look for him as well,” I said, “and save him, if I can.”
“Maybe you will know where to begin,” she cackled softly. “All we know is that the dragon guards flew toward the sea.”
“Then that is where I shall begin as well,” I said. “May I leave Tinker and my caravan here with you?”
Callista nodded. “They will be safe. A few have stayed with me to protect the camp. But even they wander the woods and the fields, searching for some sign of Lavengro.”
I understood - Lavengro is a proud man, but a kind and noble King. His loss must have been a great blow to the tribe - I had heard no singing, no music, no laughter. Some of the gypsies who had stayed were now returning to the camp, and their characteristic humor and joy of life was dulled.
I had some hopes that Le Enchanteur’s unique gift to me might prove helpful but though I searched the bag thoroughly there seemed to be nothing there. So I took my leave of Tinker and the gypsies and started walking toward the sea.

Coming back to the Vista of Lemuria

The wagon creaks, protesting after its long soujourn, but Tinker’s ears are pricked as the vista of Lemuria opens before us. His nostrils twitch with excitement - he remembers this place, he remembers the lush green fields, the sweet crunch of Lemurian apples and the long soft evenings dozing under the stars.
I don’t have to hold the reins, or direct him, as he sets off purposefully down the winding road that lies ahead. How could we have stayed away so long?
To the right, I see meadows of wildflowers sweeping away to the mountains beyond. A sweet fragrance of lavender is in the air - I remember the lavender fields just up ahead, rolling waves of purple flowers blooming in the Lemurian sun. It is always summer here, it seems.
To the right, the land falls away to meet the wine dark Lemurian sea. Once I stayed at the Hotel Atlantis, which I hoped to visit again. But right now my attention was caught by a broken stick at the roadside. Not much to comment on, you might think, but I recognized this stick as a patrin, a road side sign. The Lemurian gypsies were camped up ahead, the stick pointing in their direction.
Tinker caught the smell of woodsmoke and horses on the breeze and his pace quickened, as did my heart at the thought of seeing Lavengro and my friends again. And who knew what adventures lay before me? I had my gifts from Le Enchanteur and all of Lemuria to explore…

Arriving and taking stock

Oh! I can’t believe I am here! How did Enchanteur know that this is the landscape I must explore before I can do my work in the Alluvial Mines? Nothing has changed. Everything has changed. I feel the thrill of connection - my bare feet on this rocky soil. I begin to twirl and my skirt flares out. I feel joy. JOY! This feeling that often remains inaccessible to me is here with me. I wonder what else I have in my medicine bag?

Hmmmh…I have a packet of dream seeds. I love seeds. I keep all my seeds in alphabetical order. Of course I separate flowers from vegetables. Sometimes it is hard to categorize seeds. Would you put nasturtiums in the flower category? I often do. But I always plant them in my vegetable garden because I love the peppery taste that the flowers add to a summer salad. I also further categorize my seeds by “tolerates frost”, “prefers warmth”, and finally “sulks unless the night temperatures remain above 50.” I always place myself in that last category.

Yet these dream seeds - as I look at them - they are all different shapes and sizes. Are they fruits? vegetables? flowers? or something entirely unknown? I prefer to trust the latter. These seeds of dreams to come will thrive where they are planted and will pay no attention to the vagaries of my internal or external weather. Wow! what a great find.

What else is in the bag? These look like a pair of glasses. I pick them up and put them on. Wrapping them around my ears. Feeling their weight on the bridge of my nose. Briefly wondering if I look silly. I suspect they have magic lenses. When I put them on, and focus, images from the past come together and rearrange themselves into beautiful collages. If I slide them down my nose, I can see the world around me and then by glancing down, I see these scrapbook images. Very useful indeed! I will set these aside for later.

Reaching in, I feel the cool metal of a candlestick. No candle though. Interesting. I have made several of these descents - with no flashlight or candle to light my way. Enchanteur surely knows why I will need this on my journey, so I will hold onto it.

Oooh. Look at this, a tiny anchor! I laugh aloud! An anchor. tee hee tee hee ho HO HO HA HA HA! Do you have any idea the big ANCHOR I had to leave behind so that I could begin this journey. This is too funny! Enchanteur has a sense of humor. What a laugh for my belly! Ho ho ho!

Next my fingers find a medallion. A unicorn. Just as I am about to say I don’t have an immediate affinity for unicorns, an image comes up of a world, far away, where once a prince laid in bed with a princess and read her to sleep each night. I swear the story was called “The Last Unicorn.” Is there such a book I wonder? Perhaps I will find a library on this trip. If so, I will check their holdings or ask a librarian. To honor this unicorn, I shall wear her around my neck. I tuck her into my shirt and reach back into the bag.

Wings! These are really cool. What an interesting fabric. Translucent, but very strong. I can tell this is going to be fun! Wait! Fun? Joy? What type of journey is this? Most of my journeys are fraught with fear discomfort - doubts and insecurities. From whence does this ELATION come from? Must be that Enchanteur. She has powerful medicine.

I am counting on it.

On towards Owl Creek Valley
By Soulwright

Recording the Quest

The Courtyard was a place of learning,
which is too say that no one taught there,
but that everyone became a willing student.

Oh, some elders there might tell a story,
and draw an audience for a space or wit,
but then might as readily sit in another’s shade.

There was one though who never moved,
nor sang or danced or rhymed a phrase,
yet held beneath the most desired tree of all.

He patiently toiled on a tapestry of sorts –
oceans of creamy silk rolled on cedar shafts
of which only a tiny section was ever seen.

He did not paint in awesome sweep of brush,
or stitch threads of thought in colored cross,
nor sketch upon a faint design of memory.

Instead, he made, or caused to be, tiny dots –
pressed down and in with a quill of raven bone,
and formed of ink made in tiny ivory bowls.

He would call out to someone passing by — a stranger,
and send this one on a quest to find a special stone
from which he might grind powder of a different hue.

When the student returned, successful or no,
it amused the ancient to hear the story of their search,
and crowds would gather for amusement and more.

Some would offer substances for the requested inks,
and these were graciously set aside for another time,
and would be used in passing if one had real faith.

Dot by dot — colored specks of universality –
images emerged still uncomprehendable
across the winding scroll by his darting hands.

For he did not work to complete a scene at all,
but wound across to place dots of that color alone –
until the ink of that person’s gift was spent and done.

My ink is in there somewhere, next to yours perhaps;
surrounded by the touch of countless simple souls
beyond identity, but part of something grand, I know

papafaucon

Finding what you seek

Many seem to want a guide.
or experienced friend perhaps,
to assist on the quest. Perhaps, instead,
you should look in the right places –
the Enchanteur’s agenta is only an opinion,
you know.

I posted this on another blog somewhere - time,
but it seenms appropriate here.

faucon
………………………………………………….

BASKET of TEARS

I had wandered medium far to find her,
following ragged maps and antipodal advice.
Upon the seeing I was even less believing;
for she was too young to be a crone,
too tall to be an elf,
and too nice to be witch…
still –
flowers grew out of the rocks nearby,
and a spider was spinning webs between her hands
which were busy conducting a chorus of frogs …
so I guessed she be the one!

“I’ve get a problem,’ says I in practiced voice.

The frogs changed to three part harmony, but she doesn’t stop.

“It’s about this balance thing. I keep dreaming of this crooked stick with my spirit shining bright on one end, and my mind ajumble on the other, and it’s teeterin’ on this quivering point that appears to be my soul.”

She looks at me with eyes ‘bout a thousand years old, and puts on this scarf the spider finished and sits down on a stool that wasn’t there before. The frogs have all turned into a couple dozen baskets – each a different make and shape, but with gaping mouths the same.

“Tell me your story, quick and clear,” a tiny bird chirped overhead.

As I rambled about in mem’ry – more lost than found, she wrote strange symbols on selected stones and tossed them into baskets – no plan that I could see – no pattern nor rhythm nor chant – never missed though.

I recon some held more stones at the end than others even empty. I could have kept on except for fear of overflowing some, so I kinda wound down to telling a joke or two. More pebbles.

“Tell me now what you believe is important,” whispered she in a voice too rough for this smallish maid – and held up five finger plus one. I thought a bit and called three right off, as I had been taught by dad. The others were tougher as I had dozens from which to choose and only three fingers left to guide. I sorted through thoughts and teachings and promises from priests and shop keepers, knights and stable boys, tavern stories and what Amy told me last Thursday. She smiled a little to help me some, I think – least wise I forgot to be afraid. There! It is done.

She didn’t write any of these down, but the baskets skuddled about into a new pattern and an acorn dropped on my head. I was thirsty and noticed a little waterfall nearby where there had been a bush before.

Her voice was most musical now. “Now tell sir, what do you know that is true? Her other voice boomed, “What true things do you know?”

Well, no amount of head scratching and lip pluckin’ got me a very long list. Perhaps that is an easy question for you, my friend; but then you were not standing there with baskets a shaking time like rattle snakes. What I told her must have been all right since she didn’t disappear or lightning strike, but I felt as though both things had happened once or twice.

She pranced around the baskets like she had extra feet – or maybe her slippers kept changing color. Then she tipped over all of the baskets, each by each, and let the contents dribble out. Many held water that seeped into the ground. Others held ashes the fluttered away on a sudden breeze. A couple held leaves that spread a blanket on the gravel path. Onto this fell four stone – no more!

“The answer to these are all you need,’ she sighed, while describing the symbols on each – the focus of a problem segment self defined. “Now you may choose two of these, and I will give you solutions guaranteed for eternity.”

I left of course, with four stones in my pocket – and they lay softly now in my garden pool. The solutions I selected were better by far, methinks –
once I learned the complexity of my life was of my choosing …
and but a breath away from knowing,
once false beliefs drifted away.

There is only one thing I really know –
I mean with finality …

that someday another will come to me,
and I will set out some baskets,
and together we will be free.

Swirling the Grail

A Comment of Comments

Swirling the Grail

Oft times a thought expressed in a comment will prompt my writing as much as the original post, but perhaps I give too little thought to the impact of comments on others. I read every post on every blog of my attention – and every comment by every sister – and then write something each day; sometimes in response, sometimes in contrast, sometimes to fill a ‘hole’ left in my contemplation. Some of these I post – most I do not.

Sometimes I offer comments – often not; but do not consider it appropriate on any blog to praise or disparage simply because it is my turn. If a thought or theme touches me in some way, especially spiritually, I will acknowledge this ‘creative touch’, a message to the author, not the character in the story. I attempt to be brief – perhaps erring in the process – failing to recognize the need of others to hear a gentle, supporting voice. For me, creative essence is fueled by passion and a glimpse of another’s spirit – not by unctuous praise. In this I am probably ‘male stupid’ – never forgetting an anniversary or birthday, but failing to comment on a new blouse or perfume.

I consider each comment to my posts, and the nuance thereof for a reflective touch to improve the essence of my writing. I am amazed at concepts extracted far beyond my attention; and on re-read of my own poem or story, find thought-lines and currents revealed to self only through this exchange of thought. Aye – sometimes I surprise myself by reading , years later, a favored piece; only to discover evidence of a guided flow beyond reason. So it should be.

I do not look for laudatory adjectives or gushy praise, nor give much, expecting perhaps that anyone here is surfeit with balanced pride in their work or they would not post here.
This is possibly a trained and conditioned male view similar to the way I shop in a store vs the way many women do – not better or worse – just different. Sorry, chattering about cloths I cannot possible wear does not excite me – nor to I wish to spend the time. I wrote this piece several years ago:

EMOTIONS

Being a somewhat normal person, meaning that I make stupid mistakes and take the wrong things for granted, I have been at a loss to understand the huge difference in emotional response people have to similar situations. That of small children vs. adults(sic) is somewhat comprehensible, but the difference between the sexes is mystifying. Oh, I have read the books and chanced on Oprah and observed thousands of frantic others, but I am never close to being able to guess or anticipate … well you’ve been there. Well, something happened …
I was in a paint store picking up a couple of planned items; a little distressed because they were out of black spray paint of all things. I watched some young couples chatting over paint chips. Years ago I would have said “newlyweds.” Now? Anyway, a dose of fond memories swept over me. I don’t mean the task of selection, and re-selection, and re-trips, and… No, it was the brush of lost time and love and eagerness and… well, either you understand or you don’t.
I chanced to notice something I had missed before … been in the store a number of times. The whole side of the room where the paint was found… I mean the colored stuff, was decorated in pastels, with mock windows fringed with lacy curtains. Displays were grouped in sporadic disarray of different form and heights… sort of like found flowers in a garden. The side I was on, with the primers, ladders, brushes and junk was done in uniform grey… isles in clearly marked order. Men hastened in to my side, grabbed what they needed and headed off to some chore. On the other, besplendored side, women of all ages ambled about, some with beaus in tow, as if it were a holiday. That side was obviously female; the other side — my side …?
If this division, with the attendant emotional energy was not enough, I focused on the names on the myriad rows of sample chips. “Light Morning Mist.” “Very Peach Blush.” “Dawn’s Humming Yellow.”
Then I looked again at the row label ‘PRIMERS.’ Look yourself sometime. “Basic Rust Red.”
“Caution Yellow.” “Coverall Blue.”
Do I have to paint a picture?
…………………………………………………………………………………………………

So, should I change the way in which I respond to other’s work on these blogs? Can it not be enough that I create new poems in response to your writings? As a writer of note, do not each of you have faith that every piece you share will have an impact on someone – somewhere – mostly which you will never see? Should I find something to say about each and every post? Does my lack of comment suppress creativity – or do my occasional thoughts nurture it? What is the proper balance? I could post something on every blog every day, but do not because of these very concerns.

I ramble on …

I guess that part of the ‘essence of creativity’ is to recognize that:

The fact that you post is more important than what you post.

That you will share a new thought is more important than the depth of reason.

That you take time to read the thoughts of others and reflect,
is more important that any comment you can make.

That I can better reach out and touch a stranger’s soul today –
better than yesterday, because of what I read here;
is more important that anything I write.

That I write because I must …
and believe you do also.

How can I help??

faucon

Troubadour sets out

The Enchanteur has invited us to set off on a new journey, this time in search of the elixir of creativity.

I bade farewell to the abbess and made my way, as directed, out of the back door of the abbey complex, and walked towards the wall at the far end of the herb garden. The enchanteur was waiting for me, bubbling with barely suppressed excitement. She handed me a small pouch, telling me that it contained a packet of dream seeds, spectacles, a candlestick, a tiny anchor, a medallion with the imprint of a unicorn and a set of wings. She told me there was something else in the pouch that was specifically for me and I would find out what it was when the time was right. She adjured me to keep the pouch with me at all times and not lose it.

 

 

Behind her was an old door set in the wall. It was obvious that it hadn’t been used for ages as great swathes of ivy almost concealed it and it would have escaped the attention of all but the most alert. A stone stoup was set in the wall and next to it hung a metal cup on a chain affixed to the wall. A small plaque, the words so worn that it was hard to read, encouraged travellers to “drink from my spring the water of life which will suffuse your veins with the desire to seek the elusive grail of creativity”. I drank deeply of the cool spring water.

 

The enchanteur gently pushed me in the direction of the door, twisting the heavy door handle for me. She pulled hard and amidst a shower of dust and leaves and the startled squawks of some birds nesting there, the door opened. I hesitated on the sill, took a deep breath, walked through and heard the door slam shut behind me.

 

The cold hit me at once. I pulled my cloak more closely around me, glad of my warm boots. Ahead of me stretched fields covered in snow, bare brown stalks showing, with violet hills in the distance. A kestrel, hovering silently above me, suddenly plummeted to the ground and flew with a small animal in its claws. But it was the smell that I really noticed. It took me a few moments to realise I was surrounded by alpine lavender fields and the smell of the lavender in the cold was much more intense than in the summer. There was only one track in front of me so I set off towards a chapel, half-hidden in the snow, that I could dimly make out on the horizon. There were no sounds at all save the crunch of the snowy pebbles underfoot. I was awed by the quality of the light and the wide-open space around me.

At first glance the chapel had seemed quite close but after a couple of miles I seemed to be no nearer. I was beginning to feel thirsty and eventually resorted to licking snow out of my cupped hands, which did little to quench my thirst. How stupid I’d been to set off so ill prepared. I was beginning to feel hungry by now as well.

 

I pushed on and at last walked through the gate up to the chapel door. It was late afternoon and the light was fading fast, casting long blue shadows across the snow-covered ground. It seemed I was expected for the door opened before I’d time to knock. An old man invited me to come in, and told me I was welcome to stay the night and share his evening meal.

I sank down onto a high-backed chair and closed my eyes for a minute while my chilled fingers and toes gratefully absorbed the warmth from the open fire. He poured me a goblet of mead, the honeyed liquid tasting like nectar on my parched tongue. He pushed a wooden plate of biscuits towards me and I happily nibbled one while glancing round the room - whitewashed walls, bunches of herbs drying, a couple of pictures, rush matting on the floor. “Supper won’t be long,” he said “and then you can sleep for your journey will be long tomorrow.” While I stayed seated at his insistence, he laid the table with 2 more goblets, wooden bowls and a loaf of bread on a wooden board. He removed the pot from its hook above the fire and ladled the contents into the bowls. We sat for a few moments, heads bowed in prayers of thanks for our fare and ate the stew – rich, bubbling brown flavoured with many herbs and onions – delicious. From a dusty old bottle he poured us both cider. After dinner, replete and more relaxed, he questioned me about where I had come from and what, if anything, I knew about where I was headed.

I told him of my travels and showed him my map – incomplete – for it shows only where I have been and not where I am going.

The enchanteur had told me to head for Owl Creek Road, towards the old mining town of Leaning Birches in the Olympic Mountains. He raised his eyebrows slightly at this. “Leaning Birches, eh? That would be the one in the Olympic mountains, would it?” I nodded my assent. “Strange goings-on up there. You’ll need to keep your wits about you”. “Can you explain?” But he wouldn’t be drawn into further revelation. A companionable silence fell between us, broken by the soft collapse of a log on the fire, now burnt through.

At length he showed me into a small side room where I found a bed and a small table with a jug and bowl on it. After the briefest of washes I sank gratefully into bed with my mind at first too busy with the events of the day to allow me to fall into a deep sleep. Eventually the warmth overcame me and I slept but stirred as I woke from a dream where I had been trying to mount a camel, its rope held by a dark-skinned man with blue-black kohl markings round his eyes, which looked like a bandit’s mask. I lay in the bed remembering last year’s caravanserai journey, when we had travelled on camels.

With the cold light of dawn I got up, washed and dressed and went back into the main room. The table had been laid again but this time only for one. I guessed it must be for me and devoured a bowl of strawberries (at this time of year?), warm milk, brown rolls and honey. As I finished the last mouthful, my host appeared. “I trust you have had enough to eat, I have prepared some food for your journey”. At this my heart jumped into my mouth. How could I repay his hospitality when I hadn’t brought any money with me? “You have no need to pay me, your tales were gift enough. Travel safely on the path and may you find that which you are seeking”. I stepped out into the cold snowy landscape and set off towards the hills.

The Dance of the Drying Crabe

the whole tale begins with my grandmother deshaw passing away in her 70s she had 2 daughters both of them very emotional and passionate

unfortunately they hadn’t been getting on before this happened so instead of drawing them together it shattered their bonds

matt had had to show me the work of max cannon the creator of the red meat comic strip he had recently purchased one of max’s books and what he showed me set us off

it was a takeoff on the old dick tracy comic strip but this tracy is fired from the police force for being an anachronism and too violent it shows him descending into a skid rowlike environs

in a vain attempt to cheer himself up he paid for a prostitute unfortunately the poor bugger caught a case of the crabs from the fallen angel

the image of the faux dick tracy was done in such a manner that he looked like a sillhouette

the crabs were white and crawling all over his raincoat in the final scene he growls oh no crabes which is how it was spelled by max cannon

matt and i got very silly and were joking about some poor person catching those crabes size wise they were about the same as a fat chihuahua

the day of my granmother’s wake i was doing fine until i went to iron my pants and a childhood memory caught me broadside

when i was perhaps three or four i asked my grandma deshaw to show me how to iron grandma smiled approvingly as did grandpa

standing next to grandma deshaw with the little ironing board and grandma’s broken iron that was barely warm at its hottest.

i had a stack of grandpa deshaw’s handkerchiefs and as I pressed them i would pause look up and say ise eyening gumma ise eyening

grandma was doing the real ironing next to me she stood there slimmer her hair a thick glory of honey-blonde locks always perfectly coiffed and nails carefully manicured

as soon as i pictured this i started crying and mum came bustling out of her room in worry to see what i was doing

as soon as she saw me at the ironing board she started to cry too we just held each other and cried for as long as we needed it

after we had stopped crying we were joking about it being a good thing we hadn’t done our faces yet then went back to readying ourselves for the wake

the funeral had 2 sets of people divided along which daughter they were friends with and neither group wished to speak to the other

everyone knows how those family feuds can go underground and become a hidden glacier that freezes to death everything above it

the next day was the funeral that was quite stressful and everyone was glad to leave the hot shadeless graveside and return to their air-conditioned lives

mum and i went over to matt and doreens and had some wine and little more wine then we ended up at the pool in mums manufactured home communnity and jacuzzi

as mum doreen and yoli talked all at once matt was talking with me and bobbing in the water when we noticed this poor little beetleybug slowly drowning in the pool

ever so carefully we slid our hands under the beetle and lifted him above the water and gently deposited him on the rough decking around the pool

matt and i talked of little things what his latest new band was the concerts we were planning to see as we watched this nondescript beetle clean off his midbrown carapace and then dry his dragonfly like wings

he saved his antennae until last and with exquisite care and slow movements he dried and then adjusted them to fit perfectly again

he seemed to wave a foreleg in our direction before he trundled carefully away from the pool which set matt and i to wondering if the beetle thought us benevolent and warm deities

later in the evening we went back over to matt and doreens and had a lovely london broil dinner matt fell asleep early being sun-baked and beered

i did tarot layouts for doreen and yoli it seemed that the only one paying attention was pebbles yolis long coated chihuahua

yoli taped a portion of the tarot layouts then a animated short for matt and then i began the tale of the dance of the drying crabe

i soon realised that words would never do the image justice so i got on my hands and knees to demonstrate

mum doreen and yolie were laughing helplessly while doreen kept calling to matt matt get up and come ova heehr gwen looks jus like a bug

by the time i was demonstrating the beetleybug drying his antennae i could barely remain kneeling on all fours i was laughing that hard

to this day we still laugh about the dance of the drying crabe, so when mme laenchanteur turned me into a crab that is what i saw in my mind

On a Portal Green

Consider a leaf …
a spring gifted green leaf,
one of jillions that grab and tease the eye and mem’ried soul.
It is difficult not to see green …
but do you understand it?

You do not see the leaf at all,
but the reflection of light energy gifted by the sun.
The plant absorbs the rest called magenta in color compliment,
and transforms it into stored energy for later life and contemplation.
Thus the essence of a plant is un-green in truth;
a color shadow of what you see.

In the splendor of fall’s death the green seems to disappear,
but it is only changed in nature such that it is absorbed by the leaf
and the magenta reflects its soul to us in gold and rust and amber hues.
By this rebirth cycle we can believe and ever know
of the soul hidden in the blinding light of day.

Now consider Divinity and soul, mind and spirit!
Need I go on?
The next time you see a stranger do not be blinded
by the reflection of form and angle and pigmentation;
but imagine the soul you cannot see but know is truly there by inference.

Here too we are blinded by the Light of God
made manifest in thee and me and all,
while only our soul can perceive the color shadows of infinity.
Imagine with me a vibration in attention
where all you see is this real soul self,
and the mysterious physical being
is hidden and can only be perceived
by becoming human …

and you ask why you are here.

faucon

Lemurian Vista

 

As I stepped into Lemuria this is what I saw… le Enchanteur full of energy and ready to travel and discover unchartered parts of Lemuria with a group of her favourite people. No wonder le Enchanteur looks like a woman with a mission.