I came here to play

Standard

 

 

I have been very slack and ignoring you all and today out of the blue I turn up here and find some beautiful comments from friends old and new. I felt a little like returning but do not know yet If I am ready.

I am shamed to have been caught out napping and yet having said that it is my time to be…  to be quiet and still …to lay on the earth and breathe and  muse along with wisps of clouds and eagles circling spiraling riding /writing their story in the blue …their  journey their dance.

and as always there are many stories to share of forest life in the autumntime  richer and deeper and funnier and sadder and sillier and

But for now and for Bridie who has asked  here is a revisiting :

(it is not a new one , indeed it was written many years ago and perhaps I would say it all differently … but … it has its voice  and so …)

 

I came her to play

with You

Mother

with You

Earth.

against seeming odds

of  regimes controlling all facets of existence,

and beneath the threat of war and chaos,

while battling depleted exhausted and contaminated resources

AND burdened by great suffering.

despite all this,

I came here to play

with You          ...           Mother

with Earth and Heart and Spirit…

I came here to play…

 

this never before seen heard or felt day

Standard

 

barely dawn

not even a chirrup.

I hear the murmur of voices and then a door closing

a car starting and the high pitch of a small child calling out from the verandah

‘love youu   love youuu     love youuuu

as he waves off his mother now midwife

 who works in a hospital a long drive from here.

 

 

I snuggle back in and hope he does too.

I resist wakefulness and turn back to the dream world

seeking glimmers of my nighttime journeys.

the door opens, a small shape enters barely visible in the half light

and climbs up onto the bed pressing firmly against me.

and then rather loudly for the hour I thought,

‘soooo  granddad is up making tea and toast for us in bed’

he says with a certain amount of satisfaction in his voice.

mmmm … I inhale the divine radiance of innocence and adventures yet to be had.

I know how lucky I am to be here

now

in this moment.

this day this new day

this never before seen heard or felt day.

 

 

the sky is milky and the forest a huddle of dark shapes against it.

first one chip-choo-chippychoo and then a long while later others begin-

a whistle… pip pip… twee twee ..some laughter and

melodies that rise out of the silence to fill the spaces inbetween.

small shapes flit across the verandah from stem to shrub to flower to post.

mmmm….

And this is why I am here

to be present for this beauty

this magnificence

this Song of Life.

 

 

the other morning I got out of bed and discovered a dead kingfisher on the verandah.

looked to me like it had bonked itself out hitting the window.

this happens a bit and sometimes we can pick them up

 hold them to our hearts and they will recover to go on and sing the tale.

too late for this little fella.

and what an outfit with its rich royal blueness on head and back

perfectly set off by an orange breast.

little cream flashes below the ear and a long deadly beak complete the lush look.

 

I pop it in a box so I can show the wee king when he gets home from school.

he strokes its softness crooning ‘I’m sorry you died’

and off we go to bury it under the lemon verbena.

‘we need something to remember,’  he says and his hands make a cross.

well where on earth did he learn that I wonder?

so we gather two bits of wood from his scrap pile and a rubber band,

‘write on it’ grandma

so I write kingfisher buried here .

 

 

And this is who I am

a  dweller inside these tiny moments

these tiny no things

these little capsules of Life going about its busyness.

 

 

whispering clouds have come to the day

unfurling their fine spinners thread across the blue blue canvas.

they are unhurried and speak of events yet to happen.

I see wind coming and wings lifting

I see arrows and feathers fanned out like fine lace.

a soft breeze coats my face and bare limbs.

a white butterfly rises and dips about the crimson buddleia.

the air now holds the thickness of summer noon

an indolent heat stretching forever

into the joy  of the seasons harvest.

our hands sticky with juice – apple pear peach plum -running over our chins

as we take  a break from writing

from sitting at the round table

where our pens have been carving warrior words of radical thoughts and creative spells.

a web being designed now

with kindness and passion

with humility and courage.

one stitch at a time I weave into the spell of harmony

one stitch in time saves nine my mother always said.

same thing really.

the circle is open not unbroken

and while tattered fragmented thoughts of an old order demand attention

we resist the urge to grab them.

 

 

I am a card player.

I am a mystic.

I am a mountain home.

I am the hand that weaves and the heart that sings.

it is my time

it is your time.

it is timeless and unknown.

 

 

each cloud each wisp each birdsong tells a story

that squirms into my cells strengthening my resolve.

the kingfisher died and I remember that this form I hold will also pass.

And so while I am here

I will hang about in the tiny moments of Life living

 in the little graces offered

by cloud and butterfly ,

 in the wee utterances

of  bird and child.

 

a new moon

Standard

 

 

 

so much rain again this summer

places an autumn air upon our mornings where mist and her attendants swirl around the hills dancing until after breakfast.

the valley shines emerald

and here in the forest we wrestle leeches off us everytime we step off the verandah.

goannas large and small harass our hens and like to commandeer the one egg we are almost getting every day. we cant buy eggs with a yolk colour like ours even when we source them free range from the neighbours down the road.

our three girls do enjoy a diet rich in wild greens, invertebrates and kitchen scraps and we thank them for adding that richness to our diet.

 

 

my bedroom verandah on the north west corner of the house has become a shortcut for creatures to use such is the wild growth all around us.

why fight your way thru that jungle when you can step onto the boards beside the bank of batteries and meander across exiting down a couple of steps near the paper maiche room?

in the night possums take time out from galloping along our iron roof to shimmy down a pole and muck up outside our bedroom. they have  so enjoyed the grapes this season.

wallaby and wombat make use of it  and if we forget to shut the hens in at night they will make a beeline for our verandah and cackle loudly until one or other of us blearily hunts them off.

early dawn also sees the swamp wallaby sitting on the verandah eating the leaves of the pink salvia.

quite a highway out there – just waiting for one of us to trip over someone when we go out for our nocturnal visits.

a rasping scratching sound on the boards had me looking out the window just now to see goanna has also cottoned on to this pathway.  I think it has fled hassling the hens because John went after it with the rake.

I got up and pulled the door shut so it wouldn’t get any ideas of joining me

perhaps I am mistaken but it does seem as if they are all very interested in what goes on this side of the glass and mudbrick walls. or maybe they are trying to find ways to avoid the leeches and the ticks.

we made a scoot for the kitchen door the other afternoon when Jess saw red belly black snake sidling along behind stanleys stove wood and I managed  to close it closed before it could take a slide  thru the fly screen  and investigate.

on two separate occasions we have had a red belly check out our pantry/kitchen and then there was the rather large  goanna that could not find its way out the door out of our lounge room for simply ages.

suffice to say the forest is in awesome form – wildly chaotic and flourishing pushing fungi thru in any number of places…

dams are full and frogs are plentiful

turtles have had a great breeding season and wallaby babies poke heads out of every pouch.

 

 

indeed this spring/summer has been the season of the baby

and we have been blessed to welcome two new beings into our family

two girls born to two sisters

will they be warriors like me? queries Kingston John who has an obsession with warriors star wars and lego.

he insists on warrior training with his dad carrying shield and wooden sword and both return sporting bruises,

obviously no quarter is given.

of course they will be earth warriors we tell him just like you but right now it is milky breasts and cuddles that they want .

the miracle of new life

of attending to the journey of nurturing a tiny being.

possibly one of the most awesome tasks we ever undertake and yet a career is deemed more valid.

the twenty four /seven sacrifice of parents with a baby lies unseen beneath the text of lives.

all of us have sprung from a womb some of us suckled and some of us were deeply loved .

not really something one thinks about as life takes us on into the next stage and the next and the next 

and then as a grandparent it all gets revisited  

and I observe  the girls doing it differently.

I become  privy to discussions about parenting ( oh how I went ‘wrong’) and learning new terms like ‘co- sleeping’ and ‘supervised tummy time’ and and .. ‘lactation consultants.’

whaaattt…the…

all a bit heady for me.

I am not sure how I did it but I ended up with healthy adult children despite ticking most of the no-no boxes.

 

 

the wee king has started school-

a steiner school with soft curves, grace and gentle harmonics splashed with colours of the rainbow and cubbies in the yard with chooks and veges and songs

rooted in the notion that the child is a spiritual being.

sort of wets my eyes to take him there and reinforces that change is possible when I contemplate my start at the age of five.

sobbing … in a long corridor without end and being yanked  off my mother and shoved  into a classroom where I was scared and nervous for the rest of my school days.

one early memory involves being made to stand in front of the class

– hold out your hand – and then wacked several times with a ruler because I had done the ‘wrong’ page of arithmetic for homework.

I thought I was five but others in the family insist I was six.

oh well thats alright then isn’t it?

and then at ten I was made to sit outside a classroom again that long austere corridor because I refused to take my cardy off when the teacher told me to.

yes always rebellious – never did like to be told what to do.

eventually got carted off to the principals for a chat where by virtue of being a girl I avoided the strap.

And so when goanna and wombat and wallaby like to make my verandah a short cut I secretly applaud them,  I admire their I’ll do it my way style and I absolutely wish for all creatures the right to Be 

 

the right to Be themselves.

 

 

into the zero

Standard

 

 

zzzzzzz   …….     zzzzzzz  …….    zzzzzzz   …….

being the last letter of the alphabet one could anticipate that we have come to the end 

that it is indeed time for a nap 

a chance to draw breath and contemplate the previous 25 symbols we have journeyed thru

instead we find that we have arrived at another beginning 

a gateway appears and beckons us to explore further

what can we do but leap …

into the zero

the no thing ness

 the unknown…

 

 

P.S.

thank you to all that have  followed me on this challenge this month

to all that have cheered me on

thank you to all that have left such heart warming comments – I don’t always reply but I do deeply appreciate hearing from you ALL.

I am by nature not an every day broadcaster of stories  kinda girl

so I am looking forward to this break and whatever may come along next…

be assured that the faerie embassy is thriving and holding the space for all beings to live well with each other

it will continue to create dreams and sing stories that includes and compliments the heart of life itSelf.

 

 

and YET

Standard

 

the yellow sun is shining 

and my friend cheryl has arrived for a visit .

weeks of rain has given way for a bolt of blue

and we are soaking it up.

 

the Y of it today 

is that I have booked tickets for the opera

La Traviata.

a few years ago I heard cheryl mention that she really wanted to have ‘a go of an opera’ and as her  60th approached  I decided  to make this wish come true.

so today I get to be a faerie bestowing wishes

not bad for a wednesday.

but really mostly we are sitting around talking about our friend  Carole our sheep farmer eccentric extraordinaire

and what to do????

she fell in a hole while chasing errant sheep which  took her an hour to get herself out of and then she crawled home.

over a week later she is still not walking

so this is what she does. 

she has a plastic bucket in front of her on which she places her hands  moves it a step then shuffles her feet forward. 

try it – it isn’t easy or one might say even sustainable but in the country eccentric way of things quite a brilliant answer to getting about.

the thing with carole is that she is so used to living on her own terms doing her  thing that change is absolutely impossible for her  to contemplate. 

we rally around with soup and make sure she has water because she cannot walk the paddock to the shed where she has buckets that collect rainwater.

the whole farming situation blows our minds – and YET we honour that she has the right to live on her own terms 

just that currently it is difficult to know how to proceed when our options as governed by her steadfast stance are so limited

…….

 

X – ing

Standard

 

x-ing is a  mary daly word  found in the wickedary and here is what  I understand of it.

 

Mary Daly named it as the symbol for the unknown and variable qualities of questing women.

 

among these qualities is contrariness

the state in which women go other wise

in which they do things differently

in which they spin anticlockwise  

in which they go against the grain /drain

of the moguls of merchandise

whose only dream is to increase profits.

 

 

and then there is

…Being…….

women resident in Being

where women inhabiting their Authentic Original Selves

shamelessly explore cosmic encounters.

They dance and sing with Elemental energies

honouring synchronicity and living in Real Space Time.

 

another quality of x-ing

is women as boundary riders

always hunting fearlessly for the edge

and leaping off it.

 

 

we are x-ing women

when we refuse to be used

when we decline to be denied

and when we rebuff compromise.

 

 

Elizabeth Oakes Smith in a speech at the National Woman’s Rights Convention 1852

said

“my friends do you realize for what purpose we are convened?

do we fully understand that we aim at nothing less than an entire subversion of the present order of society, a dissolution of the whole existing social compact.”

 

 X-ing women unite !!!

.

.

 

what is it this weight

Standard

 

 

What is it this weight

that walks  around with  me

this heaviness and deep sighing like feet caught in mud,

like a body of treacle trapped in a tin.

 

what is it

this perceived problem

this anxiety

this state?

 

And why is it that it will be better

when I sleep deeply

or when the sun shines 

or next month

 or when I camp beside a surging ocean

or when a lover whispers sweet words to me?

 

what dependency have I cultivated

to desire peace from a place of uncertainty

to desire truth from denial

to desire a future different from the past present moment?

 

What stress am I suffering between the layers of cell tissue and organ

when I scheme urge cajole fret court and canvas

options solutions and promises

to dramas solely enacted in my own mind?

 

How deep is this well that I have dug for my self

 how high is this mountain that I cannot climb

and how low is this mind that plots ???

 

can it just Be?

 can it be released riven free from self grasp

and encouraged to flutter

to fly

to transform???

 

 

 

 

 

…we are voyagers…

Standard

today it is a very very very happy birthday

to jessica may

 a star come to earth to sing and dance her journey.

 

birthdays are always arriving and departing

memories hover on the fringes of a long long voyage thru charted and uncharted territories.

it is true that the uncharted areas of the map are most often the places where I am most happy.

what is also true is that until these spaces discover us we are none the wiser of their existence.

it is fascinating how you can tell a story to one person and they nod and return the gift with a similar felt presence

and other times we draw a blankness a non comprehension a puzzlement or an outright you are looney…

spaces are the most fun to explore and can happen from exactly where you dwell right now

there is no monetary cost but more than likely the ego will have to sit back

there is no available insurance no guarantees no surety

except that as humans we are voyagers thru a space time continuum

and this space is deep eternal and always there

waiting on the edges of our awareness for a visit.

 

and we all love you jess very very very much.

xxxxxxx

 

going to town today so undie up girls

Standard

 

 

once upon a time in a mudbrick castle four little girls played 

one year apart from each other,

one of those blended families as they call them these days.

 

living in the bush meant clothing was a haphazard affair

warm stuff  in winter if you could get it on them

but summer  meant ditching clothes and running naked more often than not 

or wearing only a  ‘kirt or a string of beads

but underpants ,

well lets face it they are very tricky with the whole bladder training thing that goes on.

when you have to go you have to go,  best if there is nothing  in the way.

so we had a rule

and it was

going to town today so undie up girls.

no undies no going out.

 sometimes there were grumbles and sometimes they couldn’t find them

and sometimes they squabbled over what belonged to who

but gradually they got the hang of it.

this morphed into   “ dress ups “ followed with costumes and wearing ‘grown up’

high heels lipstick jewels clips  bows and nail polish

 all too soon  modesty kicked in and appearance mattered

fitting in with ‘the norm’ became important

and to tell the story of the no undie years brought a blush to their cheeks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

a cup of TEA

Standard

 

 

the water kefir bubbles away on the kitchen bench next to the milk kefir next to the kombucha.

below on the floor in a crock sauerkraut does its blurbling and farting.

fermentation heaven.

or as bec says we are the masters of rotting.

once I only had to sieve the milky yogurt kefir add some water and drink it first thing in the morning to ease its goodness into my intestines stomach and future well being.

before that it had been a squeeze of lemon juice in warm water.

they are all terribly beneficial of course with their anti oxidant rich properties their sour fermented gases their minerals of this and that.

the pressure is on now to accommodate all these other beneficial drinks.

and I am not sure I am up to the task especially since I haven’t given up on pots of tea.

Oh no not on your nellie not ready to give the cuppa away.

afterall there is something sacred about it.

in some ways it smooths out the edges.

it is the upper and the downer

the fix of all fixes.

the highlight of the morning and the classic end to a long day.

it is high ceremony;

a teapot warmed, the cup and saucer waiting, tea leaves added , the water boils and then left to brew under its colourful crocheted cosy.

Add a milk jug  a sugar bowl for those not sweet enough a pot of honey even

then there is the peace and surrender to the  gentle grace of sitting and sipping .

aaaahhhhhh can be exhaled as you place the cup back onto its saucer.

witness

the lewins honeyeaters flying in and out of the wisteria arbour carrying fine threads of down hair and grasses.

a sacred kingfisher flashes its turquoise coat from the fig tree and the heavy scented honey flowers of the angophora drift in bursts to the ground.

skinks slide along the window sill and scuttle about the dishes on the sink.

the black snake cruises the grey water channels tongue busy scouting frog, rat or lizard.

wonga pigeon bobbing its head struts importantly around the shrubberies

whichever season whichever story whatever the joy or the grief

that cup of tea holds a magical place beside my heart hearth.