Wednesday, September 28, 2005

twilight messenger

her skin the blue of twilight
she slips between
the hours
ferrying messages
between above and below
I saw her today
and gave her a note
it said: I am coming

Silk Road Mandala

snakegoddess meditation

Anniversary Gift

Anniversaries are a time to revel in love and romance, it's true. But they are also times to reflect back on all the hard work that makes a marriage. As we know, a pearl--beautiful and sublime--is formed when an irritant gets inside the shell of a mollusk. As the mollusk copes with the irritant, it slowly and gradually forms something quite spectacular. So, too, do the little irritations of marriage create something beautiful--tolerance for human frailties, understanding of differences, blessed patience, and the appreciation of simple presence.

Thirty years of love AND work create a beautiful, shimmering, pearl of a marriage.
Best Wishes to you!

My catechism

Sometimes I run across things. Virgin of Guadalupe cards, St. Jude, St. Francis of Assisi. My rosary, tucked away in a jewelry box, lying silent in a soft leather purse. I hold it to the light. Deep red stones, drops of blood flow across my palm like stigmata. I rub my hand against gold-leafed picture frames and enter soaring dark spaces, quiet flames of intention. I touch the hem of Mary’s blue gown resting on her sandaled foot in the sacristy. My house is a reliquary of broken shards and slivers. A certificate of baptism, a photo of a tender 7-year-old bride of Christ, a name—Therese—written in a looping, curvy 14-year-old hand, above the signature of the bishop.

I left the church long ago, for a marriage that eventually ended. The lessons etched into me by the catechism at Sacred Heart Catholic Church have been washed away over time, leaving a clean smooth place. They have been replaced by a catechism of my own making, one that has evolved over time, unlike the ancient and enduring mythos of the church. But I confess that I still have a bit of a connection left, still a tiny bit of religious umbilical cord. It’s triggered when I see a bit of gilt, or a votive bearing the image of a saint. I am drawn to it as surely as I was once drawn toward the altar, mouth open like a baby bird for the body of Christ. I run across these items in lots of places, but none more than a local Catholic bookstore. Every so often when someone I know requires a holy medal or a christening gift, I browse a little. I am distracted and then angered by what I see as propaganda—brochures about abstinence that are patently shaming to women, booklets about “The American Holocaust” of abortion, which insults both the victims of the Jewish Holocaust and the women who struggle with this decision. But then my gaze finds something, and I touch it, handle it with tenderness and a quick intake of breath. The holiness is still there, present in the simple beauty rather than the message. And, I still love the saints—that array of gracious and concerned helpers. St. Anthony’s my main man, keeping his eyes peeled for my car keys, a bracelet, a favorite book. I turn each totem this way and that, weighing its aesthetic appeal against my disputes with the Pope. Sometimes I buy, taking home a tiny piece of my childhood in a crinkly paper sack. These items are Sanctus ornamentum; items I first associated with a state of grace.

My ornamentum is now much more diverse—trees, warm skin, flowing water, smooth stones, faint moonlight, pen and paper, rising bread, a furry black dog, the scream of a kestrel in the pasture outside of town. These things are my holy trappings now. But there is a satisfaction to creating my own holy place, a place that has just a hint of Sacred Heart. Sadly, there are no vaulted ceilings, no marble floors; but on the other hand, no hard wooden pews either. The closest thing to a confessional is my bathtub, where I make long-distance revelations to my sister or mother. Lying in the steamy water, I dissect my transgressions and triumphs—the latter, sadly, are left unexplored in the dark recesses of the church’s confessional. And then I wash away my sins. And oh!—the resurrection of the body.

I have left it all behind, mostly: the incense, the chanting, the myopic patriarchal dogma. But there’s nothing like a little gilt to catch the eye of an old Catholic girl.

Rain and Tonic

This piece was written during a literary dry spell, one that Soul Food has helped to dispell.

For days I have been wrapped in oppressive Midwest heat and smothered by a depression that draws me close and whispers hotly in my ear, “Who are you kidding?” I am stifled, immobile, stuck at my monitor with nothing flowing mind to hand to screen. The weather pattern that descended on the prairie presses my body to the scorching earth, all sense of story and rhyme driven from my head in the blasting white heat of the plains. My imagination is bone-dry, bleached like a skull in the pasture. By some miracle I rouse myself from my bed this morning at 6 a.m. and set off with my dog Katy for a walk in the neighborhood.

As I pass beneath the silver maple that stands guard by my door, I inhale a warm wet smell, rising from the steaming earth like incense. In an olfactory rush instantaneous and complex associations create the impression of “green.” I look around, surprised. A rain had come, finally. In my death-sleep I had missed the heat-turning-to-rain lightening, the slow rumble of thunder, the answering sigh of the prairie curves arching up to receive. The asphalt gleamed under the streetlights, puddles collecting at the end of the drive. Katy struggles ahead, eager to explore the newly uncovered smells. As we walk, she buries her nose in the shimmering grass, slowing our progress from time to time with her Newtonian tricks, becoming immovable for moments on end, offering me an opportunity to spy the trumpets of wild Missouri roses, their tender white throats open to the precious moisture.

We turn the corner. The wind lifts the brim of my cap as my skin registers the first drops of rain, fat and slightly cool. I shiver at the rare chill of the moment. The streets are quiet and my ears, clear of the heat and emotion of the previous two weeks, are keen. A loose chain rings musically against a fencepost, water drips from a downspout, wet dust grinds beneath my shoe. We pass a Bradford pear tree, alive with hidden starlings sharing morning gossip. Katy rushes the trunk, and they rise with a jarring thrum, flowing west toward the park in a single fluid current.
My skin drinks in the moisture, even as Katy shakes it off. Each fleeting drop is like a current, scintillating my deadened nerves. I quicken my pace. Katy senses my urgency and surges ahead. My mind begins to clear as I register the jingling of dog tags, the hum of air conditioners, the scent of wet cedar mulch, the spray of purple dianthus at the fence. Color creeps through the gray light of pre-dawn, infusing the day. We see no one, save a few quiet cars, headed to early shifts at factories and hospitals. It is a private world, fresh and clean as new broomstraw. My heart opens and releases the stale hot air trapped by the summer and my own fear. Each viscous hollow of my body registers the change as the prairie wind gathers strength, scudding dark clouds across a sky that just yesterday was a blank white bowl. The bright damp air rushes into the vacuum as the dullness seeps from my eyes. The rain breaks over me, rinsing me clean.

Visit to the Great Owl

At the jetty, I see a large boat, that looks for all the world like a dried milkweed pod. I know it is waiting for me. In it are four women, tall and sturdily built, wearing robes of white. The beckon me aboard and show me to a seat in the bow. I watch their strong arms as they row us through the choppy water. They are muscular, synchronized, and silent. We move swiftly through the water for a bit and then suddenly, one of the women begins to sing. The others take up her song, in turn, and sing in a round.

All that holds us, rise!
All that rocks us, rise!
All that hides the world beneath,
Rise, rise, rise!

Greet your daughters, Mother
Fold us in your wings
Let us see the truth beyond
Mother, hear us sing!

All that holds us, rise!
All that rocks us, rise!
All that hides the world beneath,
Rise, rise, rise!

Welcome now a stranger
Coming to your shores
She who travels inward
Seeking other doors.

All that holds us, rise!
All that rocks us, rise!
All that hides the world beneath,
Rise, rise, rise!

As this song travels across the water, an island begins to form before my eyes. Is it merely coming out of the mist, or are these women singing it into existence? I cannot know, but we are drawn inexorably toward it, even though the ferry women have laid down their oars.

We are drawn in to a protected cove, and out boat gently grounds itself on the shore. The women, now humming softly, jump lightly from the boat and form a line. I join them and follow them through some trees at the edge of the rocky beach. In the clearing I see a large old house, with fabulous turrets at each corner. There are fairy lights twined about the porch and the sign hanging next to the door says “Owl Island Inn: Est. Before the Earth Was Born.” This made me pause, but before long, I was lagging behind, so I ran to catch up with the women. I huffed and puffed my way up the hill, occasionally sighting people and strange creatures in the woods and along the roadside, who would wave or stare at me. In a meadow that skirted the shore, waves gently lapping at its edge, I saw a small house with a red tile roof, and beyond it, a lovely lighthouse, made in the old style, a round stone structure that supported a small, square open sided room at the top, from whence the light would shine. I wished to stop and climb the lighthouse, but still we pressed on. Deep into the woods we went, until we reached a large stone, part of a bluff or cliff of sorts, that had been inscribed and painted with all sorts of magical symbols. One symbol that kept repeating over and over was that of a great owl, drawn in ways both primitive and representative.
The women stopped and slipped out of their cloaks to reveal gorgeous shimmering gowns of white with jeweled belts bearing the image of the Owl. Each of them wore a shimmering circlet upon her head, and jeweled cuffs on her upper arms. I realized with humility that these were the priestesses of the Great Owl that I had read about. I bowed my head.

One of the priestesses, the eldest, walked to the right of the stone, and I saw a small spring which fed a lake lying beyond the stone bluff. From her gown, she drew a small crystal amphora and filled it. She returned and poured it over the stone, saying: “I cover thee with the veil of An. Thou art anointed with my vow to thee. Henceforth shall I keep my way in thy Light, for I am that which you are, the Way of Creation through the labyrinth of Ptah.”
The other priestesse had made ready, as well. One held a golden bowl of honey, and the eldest priestess washed her hands in the bowl.
“Oh, sacred elixir, queen of sweetness, comfort me.” She rubbed the stone with honey, saying: “I return to the hive of my fortune. To the guardian of the sweetness of the wisdom of Past, Present and Future.”
The youngest priestess took my hand and then presssed a blue star sapphire to my forehead. She said, “Behold, she who guards the labyrinth of Ashara, she comes in the night, she sleeps in the day. She holds the star before her, she gives birth to the sun.”

Suddenly, the rocks began to move, sliding aside to reveal a path.
“Enter the labyrinth, Sister, and take this to guide you.” She hands me a white feather.
The rock slides closed behind me, but I find I have light, shining from the feather, and I begin my journey to the White Owl. I have questions, so many questions, but as I follow that path of the labyrinth, they begin to burn away in my mind, each one burning to ashes, a clean, white burning, until there is only one question left in my mind. I hold this question with all of my being as I walk the labyrinth.
In time, minutes or eons, I enter a cavern at the center of the labyrinth. I see a massive white owl, perched upon the branch of a large dead tree. She turns her head and looks at me sharply, eyes luminous and enormous. She snaps her beak at me.

“Hello, Mother. I was brought here to you…for wisdom. Thank you for receiving me today.”

“You were not brought,” she says, in a low, thrumming voice. “You came.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You seek?”

“yes, Mother.”
"I am a mirror to those who come through the winding way. I vow to be the sealer as well as the revealer. What is your question?”

I ask her what is in my heart.

She speaks: In each life, daughter, the paths are many, and they intersect on many planes. At each signpost, one must make a choice. However, one must know the language of the signposts to choose correctly.”

“The language?”

“Yes, daughter. The world has one language, the brain another, the heart yet another. Humans are taught one, at best, two of these languages. Just as most cannot decipher my language, often they cannot decipher their heart’s language, and set off on the wrong path.”

“Can one go back and find the way?”

“No, daughter.” At this I wept, bitterly. She flew from her post and landed before me, her eyes impossibly bright.

“You cannot go back—but the paths are many, the intersections on many planes—who is to say? Ahead may lie your greatest choice, and you are on the path to knowing the language of the heart. If you were not, you would not be here, with me. Nature, love, solitude, wonder—these are all words you know, but now you feel them, feel them as they cut deep into your heart. You are learning.” She brushed my forehead with her great wing as she flew back to her perch.

My face was damp with tears. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a bead I had made. It was carved of bone, something I found in the forest. On it I had inscribed spirals, feeling the intuitiven rightness of it as I had done it, yet not knowing why. It was a perfect offering for the Great Owl. “Thank you,” I whispered as I lay it in a hollow of the tree.

I wandered back through the labyrinth, becoming calmer and surer with each step. When I exited, the priestesses formed a line and walked back toward the boat. Silently, I followed, and rode deep in thought as we approached Duwamish. The sun crested the horizon as we touched ground. I slipped my hand into my pocket, and felt the white feather, slightly warm and faintly pulsing.

Sunday, September 11, 2005


Side Trip to Kansas

I am feeling rather homesick for Kansas right now, as this journey is more arduous than I had thought. I believe darling Agnes sensed my mood, because she used her unicorn powers to fly us magically to the Tallgrass Prairie of my home state. One moment we were on the road to Duwamish, the next, we touched down at Spring Hill Ranch. Agnes set to grazing on the rich prairie grass, and I took a rejuvenating solitary walk on the prairie. I walked for miles, my eyes resting on the gently dramatic contours of the unspoiled prairie. A few miles into my hike, I turned, looking 360° to see nothing but prairie—not a person, not a structure—and only a few large and noble cottonwood trees.

As I reached a small oasis of water, signaled by a clustered stand of cottonwood giants, the breeze picked up. A perfect place to stop for a snack, I though, and settled myself on a huge dead log. The wind continued to rise, and the cottonwood leaves made a rushing sound like a river in flood. I was perfectly relaxed, staring off into the distance, when a figure appeared on the horizon. Striding purposefully toward me, I noted that she had on a long dark gown and was carrying a bucket. She stepped into the grove and bent to her task—filling the bucket from the nearby spring. I watched her, noticing the stark gray hair pulled back into a bun, the white apron, the high-button shoes, the stern features focused on her labor. I spoke.
“Hello, how are you today?” She did not respond, merely completed her task, turned, and strode past me, slightly bent to counterbalance the weight of the water-filled bucket. She disappeared over the hill. I was astonished. I expected the historical re-enactors they had at this place to be a bit friendlier. But, shrugging it off, I filled my bottle from the spring and walked on. In three hours time I was back at the stone barn, finding things in a bit of an uproar because apparently Madame Eclectica and her wagon had apparated behind me, and she was now causing quite a bit of chaos in the cistern and spring house, throwing off her robes and insisting on a bath. Those Prairie rangers, farm boys all, had never seen such a woman. They were fairly bewitched, leaving a couple of female rangers to tend to the gift shop and exhibits, which I browsed while Eclectica sorted them out. I was nearly ready to leave, when I spied a book, “Prairie Women:True Live of Women on the Frontier,” about prairie women in Kansas. The woman on the cover, standing chest deep in Big Bluestem, toddler on her hip, circa 1860, was the woman I had seen at the springs. A shiver ran through me.

I purchased the book and left. I collected Eclectica and had a word with Agnes, who spirited us all back into Lemuria, where we touched down at Duwamish Bay. I sipped from my prairie spring water as I flipped through the book. Periodically, I gazed at the cover, where the face of Emmeline Chase stared out at me, shy, proud, hardworking, beautiful. She died at forty, my own age. Once again, I shivered. I kissed Agnes goodbye, and complimented her on her mastery of unicorn-power and now relatively infrequent spells of hysterics, and set off with Eclectica in tow to the Ferry House.

Thursday, September 08, 2005

Preparing for the Feast of Larenta

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Three Faces

I have three faces,
but only show you one.
You guess at my intention
and things I might have done.
You think that you have known me
but it's just another mask,
Which one is the real me?
I never thought you'd ask.

Monday, September 05, 2005

One of Baba's House Elves

One of Baba's Many Faces

One of Baba's Magic Mirrors

Koschey the Terrible

I had just settled in for a lovely slumber when a sudden breeze knocked my bag full of magical items to the floor. I sat up and lit a candle to see if anything had been broken. I was startled to see a tall, thin, cadaverous man in the corner of my room. I screamed.
“You…like what you see, Darlink?” He leered at me.
“Who are you? Get out of my room!”
“Do not speak to your beloved in such a manner, Darlink.”
I leapt from the bed, brandishing the candlestick, but before I could advance toward him, he swept me off my feet and into his arms. I could feel his cold breath, smelling of earth and decay, on my face. I still had my magic bag, and held on to it tight while I screamed bloody murder, hoping someone nearby would hear me. He strode to the window, opened it, and prepared to jump. Suddenly, we were borne up on a whirlwind, a cyclone of frigid air and dust, and I could see land below us. We were traveling at a rapid pace, leaving a wake of destruction beneath our path on the earth. I lost consciousness. When I awakened, I was in a dark room that was damp and smelt faintly of dead fish. I sat up abruptly and moved about the room, looking for an exit. I could find no window or door, which was curious, and I began to panic. Suddenly I felt a harsh breath on the back of my neck. I turned to find a most shocking and repulsive sight—the same vulpine and cadaverous face I recalled from my room, rendered more ghastly by the flicker of candlelight held beneath his chin. In fear I clutched my little doll to my breast, and I heard her murmuring. I moved her up by my ear and listened.
“Ah, hello, Darlink! You are awake…good, good. Soon is to be the wedding, and we must to make preparations. I will be havink my sisters for to be your attendants. I insist that you dress in this magnificent garment, which my weavers have made for you.” He gestured toward the wall, and tiny candles everywhere flickered to life, illuminating a gown. I must confess that is was as spectacular as he was disgusting. Soft and airy, it was of the finest wool, shot through with gold thread, in shades of red. It was magnificent. I gasped in spite of myself.
“Ah, I see it meets with your darlink approval,” the man said with a wink.
Was he flirting? A shudder passed through me. “Oh, ho, you are trembling. Such is the effect on women that Koschey has.” He smirked, showing broken, filthy teeth. I cringed, but decided to take advantage of his obvious vanity.
“Koschey, is it? My goodness, I was expecting someone much less…imposing, I must say. Baba Yaga told us—“
“Silence! You must not heed the word of crazy old witches. She is a lonely old crone. She begs of me, ‘Koschey, please, marry me! I cannot bear it a minute longer!” He stalked about the room. “But I tell her, ‘Get away old hag! My queen must be young and beautiful’…Like you, my darlink.” His fervent breath, foul with the stench of death, hit my face, turning my stomach as he breathed tales of his conquests and talents.
“Well, Koschevksy,” I smirked at him, “Why don’t you take me to the bath, so that I can freshen up and be a proper bride for you?” I was desperate to get out of this prison.
“No,” he said, “You will stay here.”
“Koschey, I refuse to be married in this wretched state! And don’t you want the most beautiful bride in all the realm? What will people say if you marry a haggard wretch with a bird’s nest of hair and a smudge on her nose?”
“Hmm. It is so, I must have most beautiful Darlink. Give me that beastly doll--tonight you shall have a real man to hold in your arms.” He took my little doll and tossed her onto the pile of rags that had been my bed. With a movement of his hand, a door appeared, and Koschey showed me down a spiral staircase to a room. Bathing facilities, though present, were in an atrocious state, full of seaweed and fish scales. It was obviously molting season for old Koschey, and he looked the worse for the wear.
“Now listen, Koschey, I need some privacy. And, if you’ve any hope of a romantic bridal night, you must cut those hideous nails!”
Koschey’s screams of rage could be heard throughout the realm, I imagine.
“I vill not do this!” He made as if to strike me.
“Duck’s eggs! If you hit me…”
“What did you say?” He looked at me, his features becoming more fearsome each moment.
“I said duck’s eggs. Haven’t you ever heard a farm girl swear?”
He looked at me strangely.
“I must…go and check on the arrangements for the wedding…you will stay her and become beautiful for me. You will not leave this room, or your bones will join the others…down below.” He dragged me to a window and gestured outward. I looked down and saw that I was in some sort of craggy stone tower, far above a dark ravine. I could see bones and skulls below on the rock outcroppings.
“Why ever would I want to leave you, Koschevsky?” I cooed. “Now go, and prepare the wedding.”
After he left, I did a quick inventory of the place. Not much was of help, but as I was fingering the cloth of the wondrous gown, I found a note pinned to the inside. “Dear Traveler: Help us! We are Koschey’s prisoners, and we have not seen our homes for many days. PS. There are 6 of us. We are in an enchanted room, spinning and weaving. PSS. Do you like the dress?”
Six of them! Well, this was going to be quite a night. Thankfully, my doll Honoria was able to provide me with a strategy for the evening. It seems that he was acquainted with a doll who’d spent some time trapped in Baba’s boudoir in a trunk. She’d heard quite a few Koschey stories there, as he was a real thorn in Baba’s side. She knew enough to be of help in the present situation, but I needed to get back to her, as she had not completed her briefing before Koschey tossed her onto the bed.
Quickly, I dressed. The gown was phenomenal, and really brought out my eyes--but I digress. In a few moment, combed and washed as well as I could in such squalor, I trilled,
“Koschey! Where are you darlink?” He appeared momentarily. He looked quite ominous. “Have you cut your nails, dear?”
“I have already told you—“
At the words duck’s egg, Koschey blanched and held up a hand.
“Fine, fine, I will do this for you.” He picked up a small axe and hacked away at his foot long fingernails. I stood over him. “Toes too.” He did it, muttering under his breath.
“Let us go.”
“I must have my doll, Koschey.”
“Listen, she is my something borrowed and my something blue, so IF YOU DON’T—“
Koschey actually appeared to be a bit tired by this time, so he merely pointed upward to the stairs. I ascended, with him following. When I got to the room, I picked up Honoria, smoother her little blue dress and held her to my ear.
“What’s that, Honoria? You’d like to kiss Koschey?” I smiled indulgently.
“Isn’t that sweet, Koschey? It’s just like when we’re to have our little Koscheyettes….be a good daddy and take her.” I held her out.
No sooner had Koschey taken her, Honoria transformed herself into a horse, a gloriously large black mare with red glowing eyes, and reared up and kicked Koschey in the head. His body slumped to the floor. As he was known as Koschey the Deathless, I knew I had only a bit of time to flee. With extreme disgust I searched through his clothing while Honoria stood by, pawing the ground. I found a ring of keys inside his filthy coat. Honoria transformed herself once again to a doll, and I picked her up and we raced from the room. Down the spiral stairs I ran, until I spied a door, upon which I knocked. I heard voices of young women inside, and I frantically tried each key until I found the one that opened the room. I threw the door open and saw…six enormous spiders, fat and hairy, each one spinning silk into a pile in the center of the room. Oh was this how I was to meet my fate? They looked at me with their multiplicity of eyes, and began to scurry toward the door. I started to scream, and pressed myself to the doorjamb. I was faint with terror. As each ran through the door, however, she changed into a lovely young woman, and with relief began to feel her limbs and hair.
“Thank you mistress! The spell is broken!”
“Not now, girls, we’ve got to run for it!” We raced out of the castle, and the girls scattered and vanished into the woods. “We won’t forget this, mistress! Enjoy the gown!”
I dropped Honoria on the ground and she changed once again into a mare. I clambered aboard and raced out of the forest with her. She seemed to know the way. As we got further away, I could hear Koschey’s screams of rage!
“Don’t worry,” said Honoria. “He’ll be too ashamed of being outwitted to come after us today.” And on we ran, until we reached Baba’s forest. There we lay down to rest.

*dress by Lizzy's Spiritwear

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Palm Reading

This trip to the Gypsy Camp, I decided to entertain the Gypsy Chief with a Palm Reading, as I have been working on my divination skills. He indulged me, although I am sure he could teach me a thing or two about divination. Anyway, it never hurts to hold onto a Johnny Depp-looking bloke's hand for a bit!

You have the best kind of Life Line, long and clearly marked. I see good health, vitality and a very nice life expectancy. The wide swooping motion of your Life Line indicates strength, enthusiasm and an improved love life. The small lines you see extending upward from your Life Line are representative of your ability to recuperate. The break in your Life Line may be an indicator of an accident or serious illness. This break is an indication of a sudden change in your life situation.

Your Head Line is deep, long and straight, stretching across the palm. This indicates a logical and direct way of thinking. The straighter the line, the more realistic the thinking, and the deeper the line, the better the memory. YOur line is forked at the end, it shows a descent into second childhood, with its commensurate freedoms.The joining of your Head Line and Life Line at the beginning indicates that your strong sense of mind generally rules over your body. You also look at childhood with a cautious and fearful outlook.

A slight disregard to the true meaning of love and its responsibilities are indicated by a Heart Line like yours that starts between the middle and index finger. You tend to easily give your heart away. Your double Heart Line shows that you are protected by someone who loves you. The small lines you may see extending upward from your Heart Line are a good sign, as they illustrate happiness in love.

You posses a square hand.This is typically the mark of a working, balanced, earthy individual. Most men who've become successful, and have risen from working with their hands, have square palms. This type of hand is typically found on people, who are involved in a practical, materialistic occupation. These people usually have solid values and a lot of physical energy.

*Reading provided free at

Friday, September 02, 2005

Healing Waterfall Ritual

While in the shower, visualize yourself standing under a waterfall.
Ask the spirits of water to cleanse, consecrate and empower your body,
mind and spirit in the name of healing.
As the water runs down your body, visualize the negativity swirling off you and down the drain.
When you towel dry, ask the spirits of the air to cleanse, consecrate, and empower
your body, mind and spirit in the name of healing as well.

Breaking News--Ancient Maps of Lemuria found!

Image Hosted by

Karen Roberts has found this and other, detailed maps, of the Soul Food Silk Way in an Antique Store. What a find! Instructions so far have been scanty but no-one will get lost now. Just hang on to the map and you will get where you need to be.

Dolphins and Water

As I slide naked into the soothing waters of the bath house, I sigh with relief. It’s ironic that I am so comforted by the water—so many of my southern kinswomen and men are suffering because of the presence of it. I have always felt that water was my home, and indeed, as it makes up the largest part of my physical body, that I was merely one small vessel in a world made of water. My veins are rivers and tributaries of the stuff, and I would be in the same grave danger as New Orleans if my defenses were breached, my precious lifeblood allowed to flow to whatever low point it could find outside the stable boundary of my skin.

From the Water Consciousness website:
All energy requires a conductor. Water is the main conductor of life force (radiant energy) and consciousness at universal level, both in the physical and in the 'Etheric' realms.
For there is an Etheric realm, as there is a physical realm; there are different types of etheric energy, as there are different types of physical energy; and there is etheric water as there is physical water. Let us define these:

· Etheric water is God's thought-form. It is an etheric wave-form of God's radiant energy in the multi-dimensional level of existence.

We call it "The Ocean of Love" in which the multi-universe, universes, galaxies, stars and planets are not actually "floating" but rather, are a part of the whole.

· Physical water holds the Energy Matrix of Consciousness in the Physical Body. This is true for the Planet Earth and all sentient beings on it. The Life force of the Body (Water) is maintained through Breath. Every breath carries a new pulse of Light in the flow of energy through the body. Therefore, Water, Light and Breath maintain life in the Physical realm.

I ponder these deep thoughts about water. I am a constant seeker, uncertain of the truth of the universe, but if God does exist, and if she is anywhere, surely she is in the elemental forms of water, air, fire, earth.

When I see a person who is quite ill in my medical practice, I often hydrate them, and in a few short hours I behold the healing powers of water. Those three molecules--hydrogen, hydrogen, and oxygen, flow into the rivers of the body, plumping the tissues, expanding cell walls like a cellulose sponge in a basin of dishwater. It is remarkable how much better people feel and look when their basic “hydrochemistry” is brought back into balance. But I must be careful not to overburden them—dilute their electrolytes and congest their hearts. The balance must be maintained, with skill and deliberation.

Now we see the world’s hydrochemistry out of balance. We see the destructive power of water, the power that dilutes hope and congests human spirit, and it seems there is no caring presence nearby monitoring the balance, adjusting the flow just so to maintain the health of the organism. What is the plan, where is the god of the elements?

The website I referenced speaks of “the consciousness of water,” and the response of water molecules to speech, though, emotion, and prayer. I want to believe that this water in its rush to freedom meant no harm. In seeking the beloved, it forgot its power. Each molecule vibrates with hope as it travels toward merger with the open sea, back to elemental wildness. We cannot help but be injured as our captive rushes toward freedom, away from its position as ornament, workhorse, power source.

A dolphin nudges me, gently, then rubs softly against my side and makes a deep clicking noise. I rest my face against her smooth rubbery skin and sigh. My salty tears fall into the collective.

Performance in Honor of the Bard

My costume
"…I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In their freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear."
A Midsummer Night's Dream

and now a little Yeats

"Come fairies, take me out of this dull world
for I would ride with you upon the wind
and dance upon the mountain like a flame"
W B Yeats