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Shreds of cloudwith pinkand silver lining.
Birds resting on the roof ridge – a feathered convention
chirping excitedly
as
upper breezes paint the sky
with broad strokes
dipped in passing clouds,
curved like horns of plenty.
Pink glides into
silver, then antique white
set in blue as
the sun,
a brilliant pulsating orb
appears on the stage,
commanding attentionas
as a diva commands
her audience
before lifting her voice
to the heavens.
Life giving energy
pushes the night away,
and the darkness,
before announcing that
another day has dawned
with light to see
each other
for what we really are -
travelers on this ship of hope -
this Blue Planet.
Revel in the music
until the final note
fades in the western sky.
It is from here,
my friends,
that we will spread our wings and fly into the unknown,
beyond our sun -.
We are the People of the Dawn.
Our day is yet to come.
Vi Jones©December 1, 2006
Love smells safe, like blue grass
love is the smell of roses,
the scent of home,
hugging loved ones
after a weary day.
Love is the perfume of angels
an evocative scent that drifts by
when we least expect.
peacebird
Candle light flickering in the warm air, the kiss on her cheek woke her though she knew there was no one there…..Consciousness drifting, remembering. The sudden fall onto wet, slippery leaves, browns and greens of the forest floor, rain dripping through branches chilling her skin and numbing her bruised fingers. Panic filling her mind, ‘Where am I?’ ‘You’re safe, theres no harm, no harm, all is well’. Gentle hands lifted her and cradled her shoulders. Together they walked the forest path, rain changing to mist as sunlight dappled through the branches, warming her body and soul. Stopping by a pool, her companion filled a cup. ’Drink’. Obedient in her weakness, she felt moisture course through her body, giving life, light and strength. ‘Where am I?’ ‘You have slipped through time and between worlds. Come.’ She followed to a clearing, a small dwelling sheltered by trees and a sunlit garden.’Wait here now.’ And again,’You’re safe, Theres no harm, no harm, all is well.’ The kiss on her cheek woke her. And though she knew there was no one there she heard the same voice. ‘You slipped through time and between worlds. Your past and your future is healed, with love. Love is all there is.’ Later, walking through the forest, they picnicked in a clearing, near a small dwellling sheltered by trees, and a sunlit garden. Following the stream to a waterfall, they gathered flowers along the way. She sat watching the bright dragonflies darting amongst the spray and as she half closed her eyes, thoughts drifting. ’They could almost be angels wings’ she heard a voice whisper, ‘Love is all there is’.
peacedove
If we meet somewhere in passing
Please don’t nod or wave, don’t smile,
Do not in any way acknowledge me,
Much too late now for us to be old friends.
Those shards of glass or bone you see pitted
Deep into my face are the remnants
Of what you weren’t content to fracture
But had to shatter making clear
If you were not to be my chosen one
You would make certain no one would
Choose me.
If you hear of me, or where I am
Or who I’m with, please don’t think
You have the right to contact me:
Don’t pick up a telephone in the belief
That we will have a cozy chat and reminisce,
Share intimacies, be critical, make fun
Of last night’s dinner guests drinking too much
Or telling, yet again, stories of baby daughters
Adolescent sons; don’t even for a second
Imagine there will ever be a time when
I’ll forget that demonic, violent stare
And the way your eyes glared into mine
But failed to see the fear and terror
You engendered there, on that raw night;
The horror of what I saw in you
Comes back in dreams, crushes
Every semblance of trust I long to have;
You should be overjoyed,
You got your way;
So don’t be fretting that you’re missing out
On time with me;
Believe it, we’re together every day.
Jan
These ladies are friends of my Great Grandmother, Judith Smith, and came to celebrate
her Golden Wedding. They certainly represent my idea of “Elders” from the past.
Sylvia Kleindinst
So now, let it go, let it go for me;
They cannot hurt you any more than this -
And you are loved so dear – it must not be
That you cling on to bitterest memory.
In my arms now, I ask of you
Can you try to put this to one side
And think no more of past hurt and past pain,
Will you try for me?
Do not keep this grief close to you heart -
Give what you can, and take, and even more
Bring your trust here, we give our welcome free;
And bring yourself - and what you want to be.
Jan
I adore Judith Duerk and this prompt from the Gatekeeper is ripening in the womb of my creativity.
The Gatekeeper gives you a small silken bag… and invites you to fill
it from your conscious woundedness, from your deepest awareness as
woman… and lastly from your joy.
~~*~~*^*^*~~*~~
As I read about the bags that others crafted I fell in love with EACH and every one of them… I wondered what my bag would hold. The mandala here is a series of eight women – four with their heads towards the eye of the sixth chakra and four with their heads flying off the edge of the circle. Below the heads are small circles with breasts and below those are circles that many people see as “hearts.” So this led me to reflect a bit on a practice I learned from Angie Arriens. It is about checking in with the status of my four-chambered heart.
In this tradition, we ask ourselves where is my heart full, clear, open, and strong. It begins with a question to appease the inner critic.
Is the good, true, and beautiful within me as strong as the whispers
of diminishment?
What is the condition of my four-chambered heart?
- Where am I full hearted?
- Where am I clear hearted?
- Where am I open hearted?
- Where am I strong hearted?
When I am half-hearted, I am not giving my full abiltities to the task at hand. When I am full hearted, I bring every bit of my being to anything I do. Today, in late October, as the nights are lenghtening, I am FULL HEARTED.
When my heart is filled with ambivalence and indifference, I am unable to move. This is when I must sit still and listen for the whisper. I often rush ahead, moving much faster than the pace of guidance. Today though, I am moving at a sustainable pace – not galloping, but perhaps loping or trotting. I am of CLEAR HEART today.
I work a lot with keeping my heart undefended. I struggle to remember that every break in my heart, cracks it wide open. Every wound is just the exact wounding I need to develop my gifts of soul. I am emerging from a time of entrenchment where my heart was very defended. As a moderator of a sacred circle, I felt under attack for my visions. In time, I am removing the defenses that guarded my heart. I am also tucking my heart away into a special transparent pouch that will allow it to be worn on my sleeve and then quickly protected if necessary. Soon I hope to have no need for that protection. Today I am OPEN HEARTED. OK – mostly open hearted – all right as open hearted as I can be in this moment. <that inner critic is something else!>
Rarely do I lack for courage. I may feel fear, but am still willing to be courageous. I am often STRONG HEARTED and it scares the living daylights out of most people.
~~*~~*^*^*~~*~~
And that dear Keeper of the Gate to the Cave of Ancients is what I am carrying in my Heart Bag. I am carrying my four chambered heart.
My Heart bag comes everywhere with me. It is small enough to fit into the bottom of my big leather satchel that carries everything a mother and her children might possibly need, like maybe a cereal bar to satisfy hunger pangs, or a bottle of water to quench thirst, or maybe a hankie to dry tears and a sniffly nose, and, of course, a notebook or 2 for when inspiration strikes….pretty much everything but the kitchen sink!!!
The bag itself was created after the contents had accumulated and needed a permanent home, somewhere where it would be possible to simply lay my hands upon them without having to rummage and root around a seemingly endless pit of nothingness. My heart bag is, in fact, almost the direct opposite to my everyday bag — while the latter is heavily embedded in everyday needs and routines, the former is my portal to the sacred and divine that lies just beneath, and even perhaps within, the quotidian mysteries. Allow me to spill the heart and essence of my bag out onto the table here in front of us, and let me tell you about each element and what they mean to me. Taken together they sing the song of my soul, each one quivering to the vibrations of a different note.
–The bag itself is made of hand dyed silk velvet, soft to the touch, and heavily embroidered with the symbols of a myriad goddesses, eg. Snakes, spirals, water symbols, lozenges. A silken hand woven rope runs through the top of the bag and pulls it closed to keep the elements safe and secure.
–A rose wreath, the prayer beads of the Virgin Goddess, created from 165 dried and rolled rose petals. The rose is a symbol of the pure heart and was sacred to the Goddess.
–A tiny bottle of the essential oil of rose. The smell of roses eases fear and anxiety.
–A tiny golden bee, to symbolize the Priestesses of the Goddess Artemis who were called Melissai, the Greek word for bee.
–The Labrys, the double axe which is associated with the Goddess and a symbol of sacred spaces where women gathered in peaceful rituals.
–Mermaid, a Goddess of the Sea.
–Priestess figurine with upraised arms and a snake in each hand.
–Figurine of the Black Madonna, in whom I recognize the face of the Divine Feminine, and to whom I pray as I finger my prayer beads, ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, The Goddess is with you.’’
–A silk chiffon scarf hand painted in healing colours, and rolled up so small it is hard to imagine that it would encircle anything but a fairies neck.
–The letter E, my initial worked in Celtic calligraphy, because the time has come to claim my name and what it means and who it signifies that I am. ‘I am here. I am whole. I am Edith.’
–A small piece of Indian handmade paper with an invocation inscribed on it: ‘I call on the Great Mother, all the angels and saints and my spiritual guides, each of whom manifest the Sacred Feminine, to come and be with me, and offer me their gifts of strength, guidance and courage.’
And so now you can see that my Heart Bag is also my Spirit Pouch. It holds together the elements of my soul, symbols of my inner life.
Note: Much of the above emerged after working on a series of exercises devised by Mary Ann Moore called ‘Mapping Your Spiritual Journey’ (Flying Mermaids Studio).
As a performing magician with a medieval flair, I have become expert in period appropriate effects, garb and setting for various pre-1700 cultures. This includes, of course, fine separation between acceptable ‘performance magics’, and arcane practices – especially those proscribed by religious fear or superstition. Yet, when a traveling performer combined music, magic, skit and story; the impact on both audience and performer may have been magickal, allowing each to touch on mystery and knowledge beyond the edge of reason.
I use pouches to this end! For one thing, cloths in that period had no pockets, nor ready tables, nor ideal performing conditions of light and angle. Thus, as I wander from camp to camp I must be prepared for any situation – including the troublesome one in which many views have already seen some effects. I have sorted my magic paraphernalia into carrying pouches and satchels of leather and cloth – each containing a dozen possible effects to blend with story and situation. The items needed for a particular effect (not trick) are likewise contained in their own smallish pouch, bag or box for easy retrieval by touch.
A pouch for me then may serve as pocket, table, storage cabinet, organizer, ‘servant’, etc. – but for all a source of wonderment and excitement. As I reach inside, all eyes follow in expectation of miracle or surprise – none watching my other hand where the deed is done! I perform many effect with objects found at the audience table or person and have no need of the pouch at all – but its presence – its bottomless source of awe and wonder is most magickal – as if I am reaching into the depths of soul …
and perhaps I am.
My heart bag joined me last December, wrapping a lovely deck of Tarot Cards from my ‘baby’ brother, Matt, as my Christmas gift. I have velvet bags to hold each deck of Tarot Cards, and for my Rune Stones, so the black suede with blue suede fringe drawstring bag became my heart bag.
It is never closed, for hearts should always be open to the wonder in our world. Empty, so that is is ready to be filled up with love, hope, faith, or joy; and ready to pour them out into the world as a gift.
It is also pleasant to touch, encouraging others to treat it gently, and attractive to the eyes, so they will relax and know trust.
The sturdiness of the suede symbolises the indomitable nature of the human heart, it can survive almost anything and bounce back, stronger and purer.
There are no embellishments or decorations on my Heart Bag, for two reasons;
1) Keep your life simple, to know peace,
2) To remember that true beauty needs no fancying up.
“Donne à ton enfant des ailes, mais n’oublie pas de lui donner des racines”
I came across this saying today “give your child wings but don’t forget to give it roots”. What a wise thing to say. My parents told me that they would support me in whatever I wanted to do, even if they didn’t always agree with it. Thus they gave me my freedom but it was still attached by an umbilical cord and thus the roots in my family went ever deeper. However, this freedom didn’t always manifest itself in my adult life in relationships with other people. Faucon told me to think of myself as an owl that has never been allowed to fly.
As I write this I can hear a blackbird singing its head off outside my window and am reminded of the song by the Beatles of the same name:
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arrive
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free.
Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly
Into the light of a dark black night.
Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly
Into the light of a dark black night.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
My heart bag is therefore covered with some of the feathers I have collected over the years – gifts from above, I call them.
.
I love bags of all kinds and each one has been valuable to me along the way. When I was very young I stitched my own very simple purse out of lime green felt, with orange thread and an orange bead for the closure. My grandmother oversaw this sewing process with my mother, and we all went out on a designated expedition to learn about the business of trading, as women do, and have done for centuries. I must have been six or seven, and I loved being among the elder women in the family line, and my brothers and sisters. Every time I remember this little green purse I smile, and the memory is enough.
Long ago a grandmother I do not remember clearly, took a cutting from my mother’s dress the day I was born. She fashioned a rounded square into a small pouch with cords to pull it closed and a longer one so I could wear it around my neck.
As long as I can remember it hung up high on the wall where I could not reach it or touch it. But I could see everyday.
On my seventh birthday I was given a gift in tissue and ribbons. It was my spirit pouch, just for me. And for the first time I was able to open it. Inside were stones and small scrolls of paper, each with a date. The first one was today.
I carefully opened the scroll: Luna, girl of my heart, today you are seven. Your mother has labored hard for you to come into this world and you must always remember that. There may be times that you forget how much your mother and grandmother love you and how we anticipated the day you arrived to change our lives forever. Maybe at seven you think you almost know everything, but you must remember there will always be someone older than you, someone younger than you, someone to listen to and someone to give guidance to. Live in the present. Be brave and do not fear darkness.
The pouch is a robin’s egg blue with red thread running all over the edges, symbolic of the blood of my ancestors. I am told to remember them. Seven tumbled stones gently rub against each other: rose quartz, jet, jade, aventurine, citrine, crystal quartz, and amber. Each year a new bead is sewn on to the fringe and sometimes we forget and many beads are placed on at once.
After much moving in my life I have lost this precious pouch and the letters it held. But I still remember that first letter and the smoky smell of sage. I will try to fill in the gaps my grandmother meant for me to know. I can only wonder how my grandmother tried to imagine me as an old woman, even older than herself. Dreaming my own life into being.
My tiny beaded bag:
My fingers trace my mother's wedding band
a translucent shell my babe found on an island shore
sprinkle of faded roses
a little girl's first tooth
and the smile she wore without it
three seeds of barley lest the rains of summer fail
for next years planting
and the silver pen you gave me
long ago
A Victorian evening purse of rose colored silk sits in the palm of my hand. A toddler would love it for a plaything, but it’s much too delicate, with it’s fine embroidery, swaying tassels and silver clasp and chain. I am asked to fill it with my woundedness, my awareness as a woman, and my joy then, give to the gate keeper.
I’ve been sitting here for some time wondering what to put in this lovely bit of cloth so small a lipstick case would split its stitches. Woundedness, huh? Mine’s rather close to the surface lately, but an e-mail from my dear friend, although saved, would never fit, nor would Tookie’s green and red wing feather. A tuft of Oreo’s fur would, or a whisker, if I could find one, but the vacuum and broom have done their work and the only tangible remembrance I have of my sweet cat is his sneeze on the dining room window which I now look at with ridiculous tenderness.
Tears rolls down my cheek for these three who are lost to me, and in the rare atmosphere of the Lemurian cave they harden as my heart must, in order to go on. The tiny crystals, so like diamonds, drop into the bag and the first part of my task is completed. I have no problem with the second. Taking a pair of scissors, I snip off a small curl at the nape of my neck. Blond mingles with gray, as youth gives way to old age. Strands of DNA offer up all that I am, and tell who I’ve come from and who I’ve become.
As I acknowledge once again that life is good, despite its hardships, I murmur a prayer of praise. My breath rises in the cool air of the cave and the words hover like burning incense. Quickly, before they blur out I capture them in the silk purse and click it shut.
The gatekeper must be making rounds; there’s no one around, so I hang my purse by its thin chain on a point of the wrought iron gate and return to my room feeling unburdened and strangely light of heart.
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