Luna's daydreams

A flutter of wings

2006-05-14T15:18:00.000-07:00

It’s time to go to bed and my mom comes in to tuck me in. I am getting a little old for it, but I like it. We walk towards my room and I gasp. She stops and looks at me, “What’s wrong?” I whisper, “Don’t you see them?” She looks at me, puzzled.

My room is crowded with pulsing, quivering wings of angels. They surround my bed and look at me. Their eyes are glassy. But they smile serenely.

My mom kisses me goodnight on the forehead, like every night, since I can remember. The door is left ajar. Light from the hallway barely streams in. But my room glows with their soft light.

Murmuring among themselves they gently tell me not to be afraid. He loves me and they will be near. I can feel their hands pass over my head, like adults do when they are saying hello, but with a more reverent manner.

All night I can feel them, watching me sleep. It’s comforting. In the morning only one angel sits and waits. She smiles at me and tells me, she will shadow me all day. I shrug, “okay.”

Jeremy’s birthday party starts with food and games. Everybody brings towels and swimsuits. We play King of the Mountain, Marco polo, and more games I don’t know. Everybody jumps in the pool and starts to push.

The pool is really deep with a fake waterfall and tropical plants. I only learned how to swim last summer and I hang on the side of the pool most of the time. When everybody starts to play water polo the real pushing begins. Kids start jumping for the ball and crash on top of one another, laughing. The angel gazes at me from near the house.

In the middle of pool the ball comes right to me. Before I can jump up to return it, kids from all directions crash on top of me. The water is blurry and bodies move everywhere. I can’t catch my breath. I struggle to come up, but I am sinking. Bodies wiggle and swim away.

I watch my body fall to the bottom of the pool. I feel warm hands around me. The angel has come close and says it’s okay. I can’t remember how I got out of the pool. The water glitters and somebody starts to shout. All the kids get out of the pool. The waterfall makes it difficult to see. A shape lies on the bottom. Someone jumps in and pulls out my body, it’s grey.

The angel holds my hand. Another wipes at my tears. A circle has formed around the body and kids stare and babble like they don’t understand. But they do.

The pool sparkles. I start to shake all over. Suddenly, I am wrapped in light. An angel leans down and whispers we need to go. Golden eyelashes touch my cheek. A fluttering of wings enfold me. A crowd hovers just like last night. I try to see my mom. I can hear her voice. I can hear her crying. A beautiful face looks inside me, without words, I feel safe. An overwhelming love embraces me. I feel a buzzing in my head and it’s peaceful. I drift with the angels like clouds following music that is vaguely familiar.

Author’s Note: I wrote this in memory of a little boy I didn’t know. He saw angels the night before he died. I wanted his story to be remembered here.

Mothers & daughters

2006-05-10T22:50:00.000-07:00

So many daughters cry
so many mothers cry
for what?

Mean words spoken
cannot be taken back

When all they want
is a tender word
a thoughtful glance

Why can’t mothers let go
why can’t daughters let go
forgive past sins

Why can’t they just hold hands
with gentle respect for one another

Let me set my own tempo
you set your own too
and dance

Daughters want their own way
mothers want their own way
sinking fast

All I want for you is simple
let us talk like friends

Be at peace to find
the loving center
within

Breathe

2006-05-04T11:52:00.000-07:00

Wandering around the grounds
I looked up and remembered
to breathe...
That is enough
for now.

island of trees

2006-05-04T11:51:00.000-07:00

Circle dance

2006-05-04T11:50:00.000-07:00

time to go…
they say the journey is a long one:
change of robes

-Roshu

For Leonie

2006-05-04T11:49:00.000-07:00

wings

2006-04-27T23:21:00.000-07:00

Remember to fly!
don’t hold me down
don’t hold me back
I gotta do this thing
I have to try

Standing stones

2006-04-26T01:37:00.000-07:00

sentinels
watching over us

dreaming

...

The well

2006-04-25T11:17:00.000-07:00

so often I forget

to be thankful
to be kind

caught up with my own life
thinking it is only one sided
needing to forgive

but I need forgiveness
for my own actions

please
forgive me

found written on a scroll near the Well of Forgiveness

Finding the Past

2006-04-18T00:24:00.000-07:00

The Faraway Tree: a place where the ghosts of our past go to rest.

I pack a small bag with simple food and writing material. The path is barely visible. I follow the grass trail and watch for bent grass blades where the Enchantress told me to go. With many stops and starts and backtracking as I go to a dead end filled with brambles more than once. I finally see the silhouette of the Faraway Tree, gnarled and twisted.

The air seems to hold its breath and I gently push a rickety gate aside. This is a secret place. People only go here when they have no choice, when all the roads in their life, lead here.

I find a shady spot and close my eyes and breathe deeply. I feel a presence, I know. It is my four-year-old-self sitting with her dolls. She asks, “Why did it take you so long to come get me? I don’t want to be here.”

“You don’t want to be here?” I ask opening my eyes. “But it is very pretty here.”

“It’s not,” she says. “Mama and Daddy fight all the time. But they are not here right now.” She says looking over her shoulder in her yellow skirt and white top with the puff sleeves, I vaguely remember.

“Why do you ask me, what took me so long?”

“Well, so many grown-ups come and find their own younger selves and take them home with them. Or the little children go away. Maybe they are smothered with forgetfulness or taken home and put into a little box like ashes of a pet…what do you want from me?”

I look at her shiny hair. The perfectly rounded bangs of a child and long dark hair that curls with red highlights. Her hair is lighter than my hair now. Her hands are tiny. I cannot remember having such hands.

“I want to remember things. I want to know what my younger self wanted in my future. Do you have any ideas?”

“I want to make mud pies and ride my bike, but not too fast. I want the kids next door to not tease me. I want butterflies to land in the little bush outside my window,” she says.

I smile charmed by the memory. “I mean, what do you want when you get older?”

“I don’t know? You will have to talk to Fourteen. She knows a lot more than me. I am only four.”

I see myself age fourteen sitting on a swing going round and round as in nowhere. I take number Four’s hand and we go towards Fourteen. She looks at me and gives a small smile.

“I always wondered what I would look like in my thirties. I thought being thirty would be the best. Is it?”

“It’s better, but I am not sure of the best, at least not yet.” I say.

She unwinds from the swing and I take a natural seat in the tree roots.

She spies the journal and pen. “Can I see?”

She holds the journal and reads a little and shakes her head. “Mom is always there isn’t she? She’s got her fingers wound so tight, yet she allows him to do so much damage.”

“I know…” I look down. This is my fourteen-year-old self who finally stood up for herself, for me. And she has my deepest respect. She is wearing hot pink pants with a muscle tank top that was the fashion then.

“Please change my clothes,” she whispers. “ I hate wearing this…”

I imagine blue Levis and a white t-shirt with a pocket in the left side. My James Dean look when I was 16. It looks good on a fourteen year old. She puts her hair in a ponytail and the bangs splay out.

We just gaze at one another and then I remember why I am here. “What do you want?” I ask.

She sighs a big, long sigh and smiles broadly. “This could take all day!”

I turn to a clean page in my notebook and begin to make a list.

“I want to be thirty! I want to be an artist or a photographer or both. I want to have an artist boyfriend who understands me and to have deep conversations. I want to make $30,000 a year. I think I could be happy on that. I want to make beautiful watercolor paintings. But I don’t want to be famous.”

“I want to travel the wide world and see many things. I want to meet people from everywhere. I want to journey to the stars. I want to ride a unicorn. I want to have five kids. I want to have a beach house, a boat, a house in the country, a condo in the city and a townhouse in Hawaii. I want the freedom to make my own decisions and make my own money.

I nod. These are still things I want, but maybe, not so many houses.

Four asks. “Do you still have all my dolls?”

“Some..” I say sadly.

Fourteen says, “When you are grown up you can’t play with dolls! Well, not so much.”

“I need to talk to…” and she appears.

Me at eighteen. She walks in my favorite black short heels from Sasha of London in a long lean black skirt with a white crisp cotton shirt. My hair was bob length and I wore dark kohl pencil around my eyes. I looked like I was going out dancing. I was lucky I wasn’t smoking, but I never did take that up.

She looks me up and down and I remember what a snob I was then.

“You have gotten pretty casual.” She smirks.

“And you need to go to school and meet Scott. So quit the act.”

She sighs. “Okay, so what happens to us?” Her eyes widen, “We are okay aren’t we? We haven’t turned…boring have we?”

I smile, “No, it’s fine. I just want to remember what I wanted long ago. So I can make a good decision for all of us.”

I look at Four, Fourteen and Eighteen. I remember every stage and still I am the same.

Eighteen leans against the tree and says, “So ask your questions.”

“What do you want?”

And she smiles the same smile we all have. That, I know well.

“I want luxury. I want a dark, gothic, artist, boyfriend. I want a white Porsche 911 from1969. I want a beach house. I want to be a children book illustrator. I want to be a photographer. I still don’t want to be famous.”

“I want to make my own decisions. I want to make lots of money so I don’t have to depend on anybody. I want to be free of my family and all their shit. I want to be… surprised by the unexpected. Things I cannot of even know right now.”

I write this all down. And remember parts of it and then I want to add and enlighten. My four-year-old self has taken a nap on my lap. I am like the mother here and the sister to my former selves.

Eighteen asks to see my journal. “I love stories, but English was never my best subject. Creative writing was always a favorite despite what I could actually do.”

Sunglasses appear and she has gone incognita. I love that look. And she fixes a pleasant expression basking in the sun. Oh, how I remember that self.

“Why didn’t you take up writing more?” I ask.

“Oh, I hated the kids in those classes, they never said anything original. The writing was flat. And I was too nervous to be myself. I did write some poetry though.”

“And writing classes later was too weird and nerve racking. I think online blogging sounds amazing!

“It is!” I smile and try not to gush.

Can I inform them of my fate? They are me after all. “I did a children’s book and I wasn’t happy with the process. Maybe in time I will get better. But for now I really want to paint personal paintings about my ancestors and myths my parents told me.”

I look down at the sleeping four year old on my lap. She may have some interesting things to tell me.

“Scott and I are moving and I want to reevaluate where I have been and where we are going. I know it’s a luxury, but I feel it’s necessary for me to remember, so we can go forward deliberately, fearlessly.”

“I also got interested in glass and have wanted to work in that. But I am not sure of the money. I consider it a hobby. It may be awhile till I can get to that.”

They sit listening to me, really interested except the sleeping one. I’ll have to come back for her. She is the mystery, whether she knows it or not.

The gate creaks open and the Enchantress appears waiting serenely.

They all look at her and fear travels across their faces. They want to come with me.

“Don’t leave us. You can’t.” Eighteen whispers.

I look at each of them. The four year old has dropped her dolls and hugs my leg. The fourteen year old holds her arms and implores me with her stricken face. The eighteen-year-old’s face has crumpled and her eye makeup has smeared.

“Come with me,” I say. “It will be very different. Stay with me and know me now.”

They sigh a collective sigh and we all embrace. When I open my eyes I am alone hugging myself and hearing the giggles of girls in my head. I laugh too.

I pick up the forgotten dolls and put them in my backpack.

The Enchantress holds out her hands, I take them in mine. “Nicely done,” she says. “They may keep you up all night, you know.”

“I know, it will be like a slumber party.”

I close the rusty gate, as the grassy slope turns golden in the afternoon, the Enchantress leading the way.

Traveler's notes

2006-04-17T13:50:00.000-07:00

When approaching wild creatures like Griffins. Move slowly and do not challenge them with you eyes. Keep your eyes down.

Night rides are exhilarating, but keep all loose things tied down like hats and gloves, etc.

Bring sturdy walking shoes and dress in layers.

Stinging bugs can be discouraged with spray on Citronella oil

Virtual tours can interrupt your working environment. Magic headphones are available at your request.

Ancestors can drop by anytime, be prepared to offer tea and cookies.

Most bandits and ogres do not accept American Express.

An open window is an invitation for a night ride from good or evil.

Bring a good pen and a notebook that can take on the elements.

Wireless Internet in dodgy. The best reception is the top of the Faraway tree.

Cell phones are discouraged. The walking dead seem to find them attractive.

Towels and blow dryers are provided at registered bathhouses and hot springs

Wearing your heart on your sleeve is well received with other like-minded travelers.

The lost sister

2006-04-17T12:44:00.000-07:00

She’s not really lost
Just gone

It’s been many years
Since I have seen or talked to her.

I am so afraid
To talk to her

Will she be bitter?
Has life made her a hard person?

I have so many questions for her.
Mostly, what she remembers
Of our father.

He has been dead for many years
Now at 37 I wonder.

I never knew him as an adult.
I was 13 when he died.

And I was afraid of him too.
I grew up afraid of things.

Only now am I understanding to be brave
And what it means to have courage.

A new world

2006-04-12T11:41:00.000-07:00

With sadness we leave the old neighborhood behind. Our sweet friends have abandoned us to paranoia and gossip that ruin friendships. So here we drive and drive to a new land open with possibilities.

The rain washes my windows and my soul clean. I am renewed with brisk air and fresh ideas. Newness takes over and I am feeling lighter than before.

I learned much in the desert about people and plants. Without some kind of stimulation the mind goes bonkers.

What I learned in the desert. Rain is a gift and too much a good thing ruins the abundance. Moderation is key just as Apollo has believed for centuries.

My favorite moments in the desert was the day the monsoons arrived:

Puling back the curtain, we look up at the sky and think maybe today it will finally rain. The cicadas have been calling. High in the trees they chatter like heavy leaves clanging in the breeze. They are like a promise to come.

The air is still. We have gotten used to being passed over by clouds to drop somewhere else. The heat is barely tempered by cloud cover. But it’s still hot and the air conditioner is screaming cool air.

We look out the window while doing chores. A gust of wind drives through our street. We perk up and press our faces to the glass. We watch with anticipation. Another gust of wind blasts the trees as they lean reluctantly.

Squealing with delight the first droplets of rain touchdown. A swell of invisible power made real. A gust of rain blows in sideways. We howl from our front porch, still dry. Another gust comes until big drops of rain pour down noisy and hard. A neighbor runs into the street arms outstretched greeting the rain. She gestures to me and I go into the gusts of grey wind that surround us like fog, yet it is alive with movement. There we feel that power where earth and sky meet. The fierce air pelts us and pinches our skin and we smile wide to have the air turn to liquid.

The gales slow down but a consistent down pour floods the street and mud collects and drifts to find the lowest point. Soaked with water and peace of mind that the monsoons have arrived. We hug in the rain and go into our homes to be dry and content that everything will be just fine for now.

Dreaming Life 101

2006-03-02T17:24:00.000-08:00

My dreaming life has been abandoned for more practical applications. My dreaming life is so important to me that I forget who I am if I am not drifting somewhere.

I am happy to rejoin the ever-expanding group. I want to tell you all how much I have missed the halls of Riversleigh Manor. Sometimes I could hear distant laughter. I could not even stop to pause and listen. What a tragedy to have to run around so quickly as to miss witnessing the subtle changes of light and shadow.

I have missed words in written form. Nothing satisfies as much as the inner world of words. I have thrown the window open and hung outside to breathe in the air like a dog from a car window.

I am here! I am ready to go forward with my dream therapy, word sessions, brain detox and the fingertip speedway. My goodness how everything has changed for me. I am currently in a new studio in a new city and state. Gone is the arid desert that taught me the gift of simplicity. Gone is the Sun who burns me and purifies by fire. I am in a different land. I call this the City of Bridges. I am a new one discovering little delights and wonders around every turn. I cannot see my beloved stars. They are hidden in mysterious clouds who swallows the sky. I am comforted by the mist that slowly moves through the hills and pines. I am comforted by raindrops that touch every surface they can find. I am surrounded by green even in winter. The trees have the tiniest buds that are waiting to burst forth.

My hands pause with anticipation. I cannot tell you how I feel changed already and I have only been here for a little over a week. I cut my hair and that was too symbolic. Like leaving old ties and stuff behind. Looking forward to new dreams. I read somewhere that once a dream is accomplished it is important to make new ones. A continuous stream of dreams. How wonderful!

I have been researching via the Faraway Tree my old dreams. I am in a new place with a new agenda. I am so happy to be back!

Dream Seeds

2006-01-12T09:03:00.000-08:00

I cast my seeds to the wind
They will grow here without me

Seedlings will lean toward the sun
Hold tight during storms

Greet each day
With smiles and laughter

These dream seeds
Will live on

And when I am dust
They will smile and laugh

Without me

Letters and cards

2006-01-12T07:43:00.000-08:00

Downsizing is just that
To carry less in one’s life

And yet I cannot
Let go of some things

Lynda wrote me notes
Constantly in the seventh grade

I never look at them or read them
But each folded note is a time capsule

Lady Moon

2006-01-12T07:14:00.000-08:00

Still silent lady

I reach out to you

In the cold night air

Comforted by your presence

Ritual Cleanse

2006-01-06T09:59:00.000-08:00

The Dame looks me dead in the eye
With a symbolic scrub brush in hand
Do what you will

Naked
And cold
She washes me like a child
I huddle in the tub
Pondering my fate

I stand
She pours a bucket
Of spring water laced with herbs
And spices

Cleansed like never before
I focus on the new year

I cast out
My lazy mind
I cast out
Helplessness
I cast out
Fear

I am open to
New beginnings
I am open to
New ideas
I am open to
Change

Sage incense wafts around me
A clean white mantle covers me

Hot peppermint tea
Warms me and soothes me

I lift my face to the sun
And breathe in
Grinning

I thank the Dame of the Waters
And follow the path into the woods.

This journey

2006-01-06T09:00:00.000-08:00

This journey may wash away
the soil that cocoons my roots.
I may drift downstream
bumping into other loose
wild things.
Only resting
when the waters
slow down.
Find a new place
that gives me hope
and space to
dream.

For Heather

2006-01-01T15:51:00.000-08:00

dressing up!

2005-12-28T22:41:00.000-08:00

Peace

2005-12-24T00:04:00.000-08:00

To market, to market...

2005-12-23T16:44:00.000-08:00

To market, to market, to buy a fat pig,
Home again, home again, dancing a jig;
To market, to market, to buy a fat hog;
Home again, home again, jiggety-jog;
To market, to market, to buy a plum bun,
Home again, home again, market is done.

By Mother Goose

Luna as Red Sultana

2005-12-16T21:11:00.000-08:00

A gown of moonlight

2005-12-14T16:32:00.000-08:00

In a distant peaceful land
A young girl lives in a kitchen

She often falls asleep reading books near the fire
Her stepsisters unkindly refer to her as Cinderella

The ash covered girl loves books
Especially the ones given to her by her father

Humble chores connects her to her father’s estate
And his books give her the world

She cares little for fancy clothes and gossip
What she likes is walking in the forest and daydreaming

She makes up stories she tells the cat
Or the birds in the trees

Unnoticed and unwanted Cinderella becomes a lovely lady
With intelligence and kindness

The stepsisters think she is simple and base
While they obsess over royal intrigues and their wealth

One day while sorting the grain
A letter arrives

Smudged with soot and sweat
Cinderella delivers this letter to her stepmother

Through the excitement, laughter overflows
At the idea of Cinderella attending the ball

This breaks her heart with the finest cracks
That runs quite deep

She expects little
But this small wish expands into a great desire

Overwhelmed with despair
She cries for the first time since her father died

Cinderella opens the floodgates to her heart
She slowly drowns in misery

An energy begins to collect from the corners of the room
A swelling of light concentrates into a figure

A soft voice gently speaks
Blinking through her tears

Cinderella stares amazed at a petite woman dressed in radiance
“Oh darling, there is a way for you to go.”

Magically a gown of golden luminosity whirls around her
As she walks up the stairs to the ball

She is like the sun rising in the night
All heads turn as she enters

The prince comes directly
And bows

He gently takes her hand
And the waltz begins

Some whisper the prince is bewitched
He cannot take his eyes off her

No words are spoken
But a bond forms that cannot be explained

At midnight Cinderella rushes away
As her fairy godmother instructed

On the road home her fine gown disappears
Her stepsisters come home and shake her awake

They talk about the foreign girl
Who occupied the prince all night

But tomorrow they vow to get their chance
To turn his head.

After the stepsisters go to the ball for the second night
Cinderella waits in the garden for her fairy godmother to appear

Tonight her dress is several shades of aqua
Golden fish dart in and out of the folds like sea grass

Upon arrival the prince is waiting for her
He takes her hand and they disappear through the open doors

The strain of music can barely be heard
And still they dance

At midnight Cinderella runs home
The prince tries to follow but a confusion of ladies block his way

Cinderella pretends to be asleep
As her stepsisters arrive with complaints of the ball

She tries to act interested
But her small smile gives her away

Her quick stepmother grabs her wrist and asks what’s so funny
Cinderella says something simpleminded and her stepmother smirks

A mask is required on the last night of the ball
The stepsisters fuss over their clothes and keep changing their minds

The fairy godmother waits nearby
With a swish of her wand

Cinderella is enveloped in cool shimmering light
A lace mask hides her face

All eyes dazzle to see this moonlit beauty
The Prince knows her instantly

They move onto the dance floor and begin the waltz
The prince by now has memorized her every feature

He knows her hands
And the way she moves

The prince speaks intimately
He knows in his heart she is the one

The prince begins to ask…
But the midnight bells chime, she has no choice but to run

She wants to stay in his arms
But the broken charm would show her in rags

She losses a shoe on the stairway
And cannot stop to pick it up

Confused and frustrated
She doubts he would look at her without the fairy glamour

And yet what did she expect?
She only wanted to go to the ball

What happened is more than she could ever wish for
She has fallen in love with a person she barely knows

She has fallen for the way he touches her
So gently as they dance

She has fallen for his sweet expression
When her looks into her eyes

She sighs to herself
And gives up on ever seeing him again

At dawn she tends her chores like any other day
A messenger arrives announcing a shoe fitting

The stepmother rushes about
Getting her girls ready

Cinderella does her best to help
But the exasperated stepmother shoos her away

The first daughter’s foot is too large
The second one almost fits but her little toe is too big

The stepmother whispers in her ear,
“When you are queen, you won’t need to walk.’

She cuts off the little toe of her own daughter
The stepmother announces the shoe fits!

An entourage swiftly rides to the palace
The stepsister is presented to the king and the prince

The prince knows this is not right
The girl stands with a painful expression

A pool of blood forms around the shoe
The crowd gasps

The prince lifts her onto a couch and removes the shoe
And to his horror sees her mutilated foot

The prince declares this is not the way to find a wife
He takes his horse out into the open air

If a person would cut off a toe to marry a prince
What other kinds of insanity would people do?

He knows he must find his mystery girl
But how?

The shoe fittings are not continued
Cinderella’s shoe lay hidden

The prince races into the countryside
To clear his mind and his heart

He stumbles into a forest where the trail ends
Falling asleep under a willow tree, he dreams

There he sees Cinderella working in a field
Sorting grain

He doesn’t see her face
But he knows her graceful movements

He knows her spirit
Even in a dream

The prince wakes at dusk
Following the trail to a little farm

Seeking water for his horse
He approaches the well

Covered in sweat and dirt
A young girl grasps a water bucket

She sees him and smiles
He knows her even from a distance

This is his mystery girl
But he is confused by her circumstance

In this moment she forgets how she looks
She is filled with love for him

The stepmother sees what is to happen through a window
But she cannot stop this

“It doesn’t matter to me what your status is.
If you would marry me; I would honor you for life.”

He takes her hand and kisses it
Tears streak her face

They marry in a private ceremony
Under a willow tree

As Cinderella disappears
Princess Ella emerges

The Prince and his Princess
Live and love for a long, long time

In a far and distant land...

2005-12-14T09:29:00.000-08:00

This story was overheard while drinking Chai in an open market. Please forgive this variation from the original, somewhere in the Arabian Nights.

In a far and distant land was a Sultan who loved his wife very much. He gave her gifts of rare and exceptional beauty to show how much he loved her. And when she became with a child, he was overjoyed. With anticipation the Sultan oversaw the creation of a vast garden.

The Sultana had gathered family near her in the hopes of having this child with great support and comfort, but that was not to be. Her two sisters were so jealous of their younger sister’s beauty and good fortune that they faked kindness in order to live in the beautiful estate.

As the time came for the birth, the Sultan postponed his hunting so he may be near. He waited and waited. And waited all night, until one of the sisters finally came to the Sultan.

“Sire, the Sultana has had...ah.”

“Well, spit it out woman!” shouted the Sultan.

“Sire, the Sultana has had a kitten.” the sister said with a bowed head.

“What silliness is this?” he burst into his wife’s chamber and there she lay all red in the face with a kitten mewing nearby. The Sultan was so shocked and angry that he ran from the room.

This unexplainable event happened two more times. The Sultana was in disgrace. She is said to have had a puppy and another kitten. The sisters secretly smiled satisfied with themselves as the Sultana cried, for surely the Sultan would banish her.

The Sultan and the Sultana lived separately until the day the Sultana quietly died in her sleep. Some would say she died of a broken heart. The Sultan truly mourned her. When he saw her in death, he had forgotten how truly he had loved her. And felt ashamed of his treatment of her.

The palace lingered in gloom but the garden had flourished under the guidance of an expert gardener. The Sultan would often go and visit the gardener and enjoy conversation and good company. One day while exploring the garden where it touched near the wild forest, he saw a young girl playing in a ruin of a teahouse. She had the lovely eyes of his beloved dead wife and thought she must be a ghost. As the Sultan came near, the child offered her play food to him. The Sultan spent a delightful afternoon with this child and assumed she belonged to the gardener or a servant.

The child asked if he would play with her tomorrow and he said he would. The next day a picnic awaited the Sultan. The spread was quite lovely. Except the sandwiches were made of mashed pearls and the water, mercury.

“What manner of food is this?” asked the Sultan. The child looked up and said it’s pretend food. “Ah yes,” chimed the Sultan. Then the little girl asked, “Have you ever heard of a grown woman giving birth to a kitten?” The Sultan gave her such a look., one that warned danger. “What do you mean by this question?” he felt a little hot with anger.

“My father is suppose to believe I was a kitten,” murmured the child. “ And who is your father?” asked the Sultan. “I do not know, but the gardener cares for me like I was his own.” The Sultan replied, “Let’s go visit the gardener.”

The Sultan pounded on the door of the gardener’s house. A fine, young boy answered the door. Upon seeing the angered Sultan he asked, “Sire, what has my little sister done?” The Sultan bristled, “May I come in?”

The gardener’s house was charming but small. The young boy fetched the old gardener, who came to greet the Sultan.

“I had no idea you had so many children,” the Sultan stated. “Why did you never mention them in all of our talks?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you.” Said the gardener. “I know plants. I know how to make things grow. “

“Surely, it’s a wonderful thing to say, ‘I have fine children, dear Sultan’.”

The gardener sat on a cushion and looked deeply into the Sultan’s eyes. “Sire, I would like to tell you a story…”

“My story begins when your beloved wife became with child. You hired me to create a wondrous garden. You wanted splendid places to play and hide for your child. My old wife and I had not been lucky with children. But soon after we came here, we heard crying outside; in a basket with fine blankets was a beautiful newborn boy. We gave him the best the Sultans land could offer.”

“And some time later, two more children arrived, a boy and a girl. We of course, knew something had happened. And we could not assume anything, sire. Word came down, the Sultana was in disgrace and we were not sure you were of, the right mind. My wife and I brought up these children as our own.”

The king looked at these children in their simple clothes and saw his beloved Sultana in each of them. “But how did this happen, really? “ mused the Sultan.

“I do not know, only that they appeared.” answered the gardener. The Sultan thought to himself. He took each child in his arms and apologized for his blindness.

The Sultan had allowed his wife’s sisters to stay in the palace and live a life of luxury. They had become spoiled and greedy. One night the Sultan had a trusted servant give the sisters the sweetest wine and a few key questions. In the dying candlelight, the sisters spilled the story of the Sultana’s labors were to three children. The sisters talked and laughed, belittling the Sultan’s wife. In the morning the sisters found their rooms changed to the lowest chambers of servants.

The Sultan spoke to them and asked them why they did such a thing. They just spat at him. Ungrateful for the life they lead and wept for themselves.

The Sultan came to the gardener’s house and wanted his children to love him, not because he was their father, but because they wanted to. Everyday he came to visit them and brought tutors and started to have a new house made for the Royal Gardener. Eventually the children came to live in the palace. But each day they spent in the garden with their adopted parents.

The unorthodox family unit created a strong bond of friendship and generosity. The Sultan told his children of their mother’s beauty and sweetness. He also told them what a joy they are to him and he could not imagine life without them.

Three Wise Men

2005-12-14T09:26:00.000-08:00

Chai with camels

2005-12-05T13:29:00.000-08:00

Meeting up with the caravan, the gentle laughter of women embraces me. Tents of rest luxuriate in the open air with cups of Chai on little trays. Exuberant smiles and excitement of the pending journey make us all giddy. Silhouettes of exotic people pass over the tent as we wait for our attendants. The ladies settle into comfortable, portable chairs laden with pillows and watch the crowd. Small children run about bartering goods. The clinks of coins are exchanged.

Each of us walks about the camels to choose one to ride. The camels wear colorful tassels and bells. Protection from the evil eye, I think. I choose a young camel with long lashes. She calmly licks her heifer. I watched amazed at her white fluffy baby camel.

The hilarious drama of getting on the camels, keeps us giggling for some time. And we don’t quiet down until the road gets squeezed into a narrow passage. I vaguely think about bandits.

My thoughts drift inwardly. I have read it’s important to have a plan when starting a journey. To ask yourself why you travel. I usually do, but not this time.

The day I left my mother’s home to seek the world, the December sky melted into the hazy band of blue ocean. I was leaving for good, never to be part of San Diego in quite the same way. The familiar winding drive caught me and shook me unexpectedly as tears coursed down my face like a child. I thought I so brave to go, to find my own way. And here I was a churning mess under the surface. That journey cut to my heartstrings and resonated in my bones.

The Shedding Moon

2005-11-15T18:29:00.000-08:00

Tonight is the full moon. It is called the Blood Moon and the Shedding Moon, among many others too. My primary focus will be to let go. I visualize myself unburdened by things or obligations. I imagine myself running into the ocean to be cleansed in the warm sun. My back is straight, bringing only what I can carry. I release the rest.

gift of the sea

2005-11-13T10:58:00.001-08:00

Polishing

2005-11-06T22:58:00.000-08:00

If you are irritated by every rub,
how will your mirror be polished?

-Jelaluddin Rumi

The desert revisited

2005-11-04T12:42:00.000-08:00

Stripping away

Takes time.

Searching.

Thirsting.

Cactus survives

Minimally.

Pouring rain.

Flash floods.

Tempered by

The sun.

Beloved desert.

Illuminate my spirit.

The desert

2005-11-03T10:54:00.000-08:00

This last weekend my very best friend of too many years to count came to visit me in Arizona. She enjoyed and was surprised by the diversity of the landscape. It’s dry, it’s wet with bogs and creeks, it’s red, it is wind whipped, and it has lopsided mining towns slowly sliding down the mountain.

But it’s ultimately just plain dry. My knuckles crack with the dryness of just being. I have to remember to put lotion on many times a day. I don’t really like that kind of regime. But she longed to go back to her moist air of Seattle. And I don’t blame her.

The thing about Arizona is it has helped me glean my spirit. The desert has always been a biblical place of searching and abstaining and thirsting. There is no fat on the land of this desert. It is very lean. The very low lying scrub and cactus survive on minimal rainfall. If a down pour of rain comes the land cannot even absorb it, it runs off and creates flash floods.

Where I live there is no mall nearby. And that’s part of the attraction. I don’t really need anything other than what I have. In fact I have too much.

When I left Los Angles, the heart of materialism, I could not let go of my many things. It was just too heart breaking to part with a lifetime of collections. I voluntarily came to this place in the desert with not so much shopping, except for tourist shopping, with I didn’t need.

The desert represents what is most essential for survival. Like the plants that survive on minimal water, I too survive on the barest of input. I don’t watch too much TV.

Less is more.

I have been diving deeper into myself to discover what makes me tick. Writing has helped me tremendously. Traveling too.

The desert is a spiritual retreat. The sun bleaches everything. There is nowhere to hide in the bright sunlight. If you are here long enough, the dry air and sun will make you look older than your years. Or maybe it is wiser than your years as well.

I have slowly detached from what I found vaguely interesting. Most things can be replaced: Computers, TVs, anything electronic and they get upgraded every two years or so. It’s sad really. What cannot be replaced are my family photos, my drawings and paintings, and my journals. Most objects can be replaced. But souvenirs from distant lands are mementos of a journey that may not be repeated.

And finally I have found my load too heavy to bear. I want to shake off the attachments I have created in this short time. I want to live long and full. But I do not want to carry the weight of my life on my back! I want to be light of touch and light in spirit. I want to see the edges of my belongings without needing to step way back for a view.

The journey of my heart

2005-10-24T22:49:00.000-07:00

My journey began long before I knew I was looking for something. One night I received an email asking me if I was ready to embark on a journey. I had no idea where it would go. It started with a list. Tired of carrying the weight of my life, I packed lightly with only what would fit in my little backpack. At daybreak, I meet many travelers who were ready for such a journey as this.

I found a hidden door in a tree and was whisked away by a night ride in moonlight. Mysterious gypsies drew me with a silent call in the night. Some kind of enchantment made my dreams deep and meaningful. Before long, I woke each day excited to know what would happen next. The journey to an island brought memories I didn’t know I possessed. Ancient knowledge was revealed to me. How can my life ever be the same now?

I learned to proclaim who I am. I am no longer the invisible child! See me! Hear me! Understand my words! Slowly I have come to realize my own truth. That truth is to be free. Unburdened by my own past and my parents past. Just let it go and find what’s around that next corner.

I have met celestial beings. I have met wee fairies. I have met warriors of great strength and feminine mystic. I have met talking donkeys and talking dolls. I have met known hell raisers. I have been reintroduced to friends of old who knew me long ago.

And now I have learned to be open in a completely new way. My heart feels lighter than I ever remember it being. I have let go of old cryptic ideas. I have found a new road. The Silk Road. It winds through space and time; thoughts and dreams; mystery and magic.

Somewhere along the way I meet myself. The child, the girl, and the woman I want to be. I was stunned to discover that I needed to make some changes. To hold my own hand and say, “Yes! We can do this.” Brick by brick I had to tear down my own walls and find an inner world rich with ideas waiting to be discovered.

At last, I am in an distant land with no water and no road. I have finally come to the last door. The one that was hidden away for safekeeping, so no one would find that brilliant light. The key is the secret that I hid in my own heart. It was a prisoner there that I bound tight. And through my journey the ties loosened. And fell away, until I could feel an ache of joy and freedom coming close. The key that spilled from my lips opened the door and released my spirit. Away I flew with magic wings. I saw a wild fire burning. The fire of my anger, my regret, my invisibility burning, burning, gone!

Little cat

2005-10-23T09:17:00.000-07:00

Little cat
In the sunlight

What makes your
Whiskers twitch like that?

Little cat
Dozing on the floor

What do you dream
While soaking in the sun?

Little cat
Of my heart

Would a move to grey skies
Make you dream of sunlight?

Little cat
On yesterday’s mail

Would you love me
Still if we moved to distant lands?

Little cat
My little girl

Would you be happy
To be a studio cat?

Little cat
Of black and white

Would you still
Lay in a pool of sunlight?

Shimmering Gaze

2005-10-21T18:39:00.000-07:00

The Full moon is still in the sky when I wake. I take my time bathing and wear a simple dress of pale blue cotton and my summer cloak.

The Enchantress takes a small group of us on a hidden path. We wait in a shadowy grove. One by one we disappear into the trees.

Quietly, the Enchantress nods to me it’s my turn. I set onto the footpath and turn into a clearing.

The lake is peaceful and wide. The water reflects the coming day. Cranes in the reeds search for food.

I breathe in the cool morning air. Mist collects and drifts across the water. I smile contentedly and remember why I am here.

I settle myself near the edge gazing into the water, my reflection still. As I suspected, just boring old me. A shimmer slowly cuts the water like a shiver.

A bear appears. I know this bear. It is me, when I was afraid living in Los Angeles. It’s like an old friend, I had forgotten.

In mid thought the water ripples again. A distant echo…A whisper

Shinjo

A dark silhouette with horns, looms into view. A samurai in gleaming woven armor. My samurai ancestor.

But it is me just me.

He whispers: Be brave. Go forward without regret.

My ancestor looks at me from the reflection. I see his blazing eyes.

The image softens and it is my eyes. I nod to myself and my ancestors that are beginning to haunt me.

They are really trying to impart me with their knowledge. They think if they keep repeating the words I will hear them better.

I do hear them.

And I am pleased they still care even in the otherworlds. I imagine they watch me like a soap opera.

They give me vision beyond myself and the reflection smiles.

Gypsy Poetry

2005-10-14T15:29:00.000-07:00

I no longer have a mother
Or a black-haired father.
I have been left alone
Like a fallen tree.

But that tree
Is not quite alone:
The cold wind blows
And touches its branches.

~anonymous gypsy poem written some time ago

My date

2005-10-13T18:28:00.001-07:00

Little gypsy

2005-10-13T18:27:00.000-07:00

I have a fantasy
To be a child who
Lives in a Gypsy caravan.
My backyard is the world.
My sleeping place is a little caravan
Filled with soft down covers for warmth.
The laughing creek is my water source
The crackling fire is my heat source.
The stars are my ceiling and
The road is the story that
Weaves a new adventure
Around every corner.

I need...

2005-10-11T08:42:00.000-07:00

I need water.
I need to slip into that liquid splendor.
I need to stare into the wide sky.
I need to listen to the birds.
I need this…

Appraising the Heart

2005-10-07T14:08:00.000-07:00

An eye for an eye

A tooth for a tooth

Within the field of rushes

Lies the heart of one

Mother, daughter, wife, sister, friend,

Whose time in this realm is done?

Within the field of rushes

Lies the heart of one

Teacher, counsellor, advocate, imagineer, friend

Who took but gave an eye, a tooth, a shoulder

Earth to Earth

Ashes to ashes dust to dust

Within the field of rushes

Lies a heart of one

Who gave more than she took

Who returns to the source

As light as a feather

by Heather Blakey

Self-portrait

2005-10-07T13:55:00.000-07:00

For my lover

2005-10-07T13:50:00.000-07:00

The day we meet
I had no idea we would become a couple.

The day we meet
I didn’t know we would become a unit that fell so naturally into place.

The day we meet
I had no idea how familiar your face would become.

The day we meet
I didn’t know you would be such good company.

The day we meet
I didn’t know you would be my very best friend.

The day we meet
I didn’t know you would be so accepting to who I am.

The day we meet
I didn’t know how much my heart would grow in loving you.

You amaze me! Happy Birthday!

Cuppa tea

2005-10-06T00:10:00.000-07:00

Dreaming on paper

2005-10-03T11:46:00.000-07:00

Slowly dreaming on paper. I could record the
voices of my ancestors. The samurai with

their still, silent shouts: Be brave. The last
Shinjo. Do not fear. Go boldly forward

without regret. Show them beauty in despair.
Show them beauty in personal pain. Show them

beauty in transformation. Show them beauty
in rebirth. Show them beauty in the now and

be free. Without limits. It’s your story.
a fragment.

a piece.

Sense of beauty

2005-10-03T11:44:00.000-07:00

I went to Powell’s bookstore and looked at zines.
I found it a waste of paper. None were inspiring.

There was no sense of beauty. No poetry. No sense
of breathing space. No sense of a Japanese garden

in the rain. No sense of yellow leaves wet on the
pavement. No sense of mist coming to settle on the

trees. I look and look for inspiration in a little book.
There is no sense of beauty. I think. I must create my

own little zine of poetry. But what would I say? Maybe
I could s l o w l y d r e a m o n p a p e r . . .

My Champion

2005-09-24T17:09:00.000-07:00

And there he is
outside my window.
My childhood friend
waits for me.
I gently greet him.
And we are off
into the night.
The balmy air
surrounds us
the milky way
spills across
the universe

Dazzled by his
Whiteness
His wings
His intelligence
His strength
I hold him and say
I am sorry

Over water
in the distance
Islands
A cluster
He shows me
A secret place
On a lonely island
A forgotten temple

The flame is out
Brambles and weeds
cling everywhere
But the center altar has words:
Between sound and silence
Let serenity dance.

In this circular temple
A dead wick lay untouched
I find a stone of flint
Touching the flint to the wick
They sway knowingly to one another.
Magically
a flame blazes to life

Apparitions of priestesses appear
Transparent in moonlight
They lift their arms to the sky

Dancing in a circle
Around the altar
The temple bursts to life
Pure splendor
Solid golden pillars
Stand beautifully carved

Swirls of incense
Fruit and nuts gleam on the altar
The light shimmers magically
The brambles are cleared
There are only sacred priestesses
And me.

I follow their lead
We slowly walk out of the temple
Towards a circle of stones
A low hum emanates from the stones
Looking back at the temple
The sun is rising
A strange shadow moves
A shadow snake seems to slowly dance
On the temple wall
The head is the temple stairs.

I watch amazed
And one by one
the temple priestess
Walk back into the shadow
of the snake
And vanish

Pegasus
My darling
Watches me
Alone
in this circle of stones
Looking at the temple
Gone is the splendor
Gone is the gold
Only pitted stone remain
But the temple pillars stand
Like sentinels over this sacred spot.

When I was little
There was so much
I didn’t understand.
And even now
I don’t completely
Understand.
But what I have seen,
Has been a gift.
Daybreak
of the equinox .

The Winged One

2005-09-23T11:41:00.000-07:00

Pegasus came to me like in a dream. He loved me as a child and I loved him. I would ride on his back over oceans and deserts in the moonlight. All summer we had a platonic love affair. Every night he would appear at my window and off we would go. My parents never knew I was gone. And then one day I realized the world had their hold on me and I could not go. And he was so disappointed he never came to me again.

And now would he even remember me? Would he know in my heart, I so regret having to grow up. It was not a choice, it just happened. I only wish I had one more moonlit night with him. He shared with me wonder, mysteries and to not ever to be afraid of the dark. He was my protector, my champion. And I was only a little girl with dreams of slaying demons and nightmares. I still want to slay the nightmares but I do that with my pen. And they bow down defeated and bleed black India ink.

And now my beloved Pegasus, I remember you in the bright moonlight where you gave me courage and showed me magic. I can only thank you with limp words that cannot show you how much you have meant to me. I’ll keep my window open for you.

Tales of the trio

2005-09-21T22:15:00.000-07:00

Many years ago I saw a movie that touched me in an unexpected way.

In a far away unknown land in a distant sea, white men had occupied an island. But it is the story of a woman and her daughter that interests and the woman’s love for her piano. The piano haunts her dreams and she caresses it like a lover.

When she is unceremoniously sent by her father to marry an uninspired man in the far away islands, the piano cannot follow and stays on the beach. She dreams of her piano. The people cannot understand this unconventional woman with no words.

A native man takes her and her daughter for a day to visit the piano on the beach and that’s when we hear the sound of joy. The purest joy. And only this man with Maori markings on his face has heard and understood the voice of this silent woman.

He falls in love with the strange and beautiful. And here the tumultuous relationship begins and creates an adulterer. Only when the uninspired husband finds out and cuts one of her fingers off with an ax does he learn of her wild heart. She cannot change it as one cannot change the tide.

Enchanting, dark, beautiful, melancholy are words I think sit comfortably with this movie. And I recommended it to my parents, who by then were estranged. But to my shock did they take my mothers lover. It has always been a strange trio. But I can only imagine the awkwardness that must have followed when the credits rolled.

But I also think it so fitting for them all to sit in a darkened theatre to watch this petite woman with dark hair and eyes. Transform into the woman who follows her desires. And to see the uninspired husband let her go freely into the arms of another.

Even with a new lover, the piano is her first love. She releases it into the sea and thinks to go with it. But her wild spirit surprises even herself with that will to go on. What lies beneath the surface of a personality is sometimes more complex, rich and wonderful than expected.

The Yellow Hills of Italy

2005-09-17T00:13:00.000-07:00

Ahhh Italy!

Happy Nomad

2005-09-16T20:54:00.000-07:00

Here I sit
Looking at the red
Sedona rocks.
The sky so blue
And Snoopy sleeps
Forever on that rock.

We are just visitors
Passing through.
Nothing is ours
Not really.
Some come for awhile
Some stay for generations.

I am happy to be a nomad.
Yes, my garden barely gets started
Then I leave.
But each time
I learn a little more.
So next time,
Will be even
better.

Nothing is permanent.
All is temporary.
Moving makes that a reality.
More than most.

Some lose everything with
A storm
A fire
A flood
An earthquake.

Mother nature
Just laughs at what
We think is precious.
What is precious?
My heart.
My humor.
My smile.
These are mine,
I think.
And I share them
One soul at a time.

Nauscka

2005-09-16T20:49:00.000-07:00

The Enchantress gives me a doll.
A doll…
After all these years.

The day I put my dolls away
High in my closet
I cried.
My step-daddy insisted
I didn’t have to put them away.
But I knew it was time
To put them
Away
For good…

I examine this doll.
She is completely handmade,
Not plastic.
Even her eyes
Are made of something real
Like ebony.

She says her name is Nauscka.
She wears sweet little clothes
Like a child.
Blue sweater, skirt, socks,
Little Mary Jane shoes
With a button to hold them on.

I hold back,
Not wanting to believe.

I suddenly realize
All the travelers are gone.
Nauscka tells me to follow
The crow.

I am silent
And so is she.

My skirt has large pockets
And she fits inside
Where she hides.

She begins to bounce
Up and down.
I look around
Someone is coming.
I hide.
Dreadful hooded bandits
Pass on the dusty road.

How did she know?
She says nothing.

She only tells me where to turn
Soon we are at a dreadful house
Near a lake.

The gate of bones moan
When we approach.

I look down at Nauscka,
She nods

I timidly knock.
The door is flung open
Looking into the eyes of death himself.
But the ragged thing standing
Is somewhat womanly.
She spits her words at me,
“What do YOU want?”

“I need directions to the
Camp of the Amazons.”
My eyes wide with fear.
She sees my fear,
And smirks with satisfaction.
“Please come in, dear
And we will see what we can do.”

Inside is so dark,
I bump into stacks of things.
She sits down
lights her pipe,
And blows smoke in my face.
“I will tell you the way,
but you must do something for me
in return.”

I knew this was coming.

“Like, what?” I ask.
“Don’t be so smug,” she puffs.
“Me?” Oh, yeah, yes me…

I feel Nauscka press me
In warning.
I change my tone.
Careful.
“What would you like me to do?”

She rolls her eyes around
And squints.
“I’ll think of it tomorrow,
Tonight you can stay out back.”

We stay in a tiny shed
And sleep on straw.
In the night
Nauscka bumps me
To notice things
In the dark.
I see Baba’s silhouette.
She blows at the clouds
They move quickly away.
Leaving the night clear
And full of stars.

Suddenly
The house rumbles to life.
Huge chicken legs appear
To lift the house
And walk away.
All I can do is gasp
Surprised!

Just before dawn
A burst of red light
Runs across the field.
The chicken house runs after it
And catches it.
A cackle echoes.

Nauscka whispers to me
“Pretend you are asleep”
And I do.

I can feel Baba peering at me.
She shakes me roughly.
“Girl, time for work.”
The sky is still dark.
I blink slowly and yawn.

She puts me in her kitchen
The house is a mess.
Piles of stuff in disarray.
And then I remember the chase,
Well, of course
everything inside fell over too.

But I don’t ask or comment.
And Nauscka gently pats me.

Baba leaves me to work
Nauscka amazingly
Does most of the work
She cleans, organizes, polishes.
Somehow in a very short time,
The task is done.

Baba Yaga comes in
Squints at me.
Looks around
Shakes her head.

“Huh,” she says
with her hands on her hips.
She gives me directions to the camp.

I am almost out the door.
Baba clears her throat.
I stop.
“Is there anything you would like
to ask me?”
I hesitate…
“What was the red light this morning?
“Ahh,” she says,
“it was dawn coming too early.
So I had to hold it back.”
She smiles her toothless smile
and nods.

“And you, girl, how did you
clean my house so quickly?”

Pressure from my pocket.

I smile,
“With kindness
And sweetness.”

“Bah,” She waves me away,
“Get out of here,
Be on your way!”

I start to run
Out the door.
As far away as I can.
When I am truly far away.
I take Nauscka out of my pocket.
I hug her and rock her.
And she hugs me back
With her little hands.

So long ago,
Putting my dolls away
broke my heart.
And now Nauscka
Looks up at me
As if she knows.

The Celestial Night

2005-09-13T14:22:00.000-07:00

The anticipation mounts
Laughter, applause
But I must escape this merriment
I am too shy for this stage
I hide in the shadow of a great Willow

I hear a hushed swish of a skirt
And there in all her radiance,
The Amazon Queen.
I bow my head,
“My lady…”
“Do not the festivities amuse you?” she inquires.
“Oh yes, but I cannot perform…
not even for you.” I shamefully admit.
“Then I will have to amuse you, myself,” she grins.
And pulls me into the night.

Away from the lights,
My eyes adjust to the forest floor.
I am careful to follow in her path,
Avoiding large fallen branches.

I hear a waterfall.
She has lead me to a spring.
And there,
sipping from its source
Is a crouching cloaked figure.

Feminine hands touch the water.
Hands brilliant like bone.
She turns to face us.
Her hood slips down.
Light spills from within.
And there…
a radiant being stands.

The Amazon Queen bows,
And I follow.
This gentle lady’s cloak,
Falls to the ground.
Suddenly,
the night
Flares like a full moon just landed.
Her skin shimmers
Her blazing gown is gossamer thin
with the palest tiny pearls.

“Luna, I would like to introduce you
to your namesake,
Lady Luna, Diana,
The Moon Goddess.”
I stare, speechless.

Of all the surprises and worries
I had never expected the Amazon Queen
To bestow such a gift
To me.

The Goddess inclines her head
And gracefully enters the spring.
It dazzles
with what is not an underwater light.
There she bathes and tells us
how her sisters each manage a star.
But being the youngest
she wanted to stay nearest home,
And care for Gaia’s own little sister.

The Amazon Queen stirs.
“We don’t want to be missed.”
We stand ready to leave.
Lady Luna, holds out her hands to me,
with a gift.

Sisterly affection I have never had.
I would like a sister like her.
She dons her midnight cloak
The night goes dark
Only her voice tells me
I am still here.

I open the pouch
An oval piece of moonstone
Falls into my palm.
Its bluish surface brightens
Like a cool candle.
“If you ever feel lonely,
just listen to the stone.
It is connected to me.
It will be comforting, I think.”

I am so moved…
by this lovely Goddess…sister.
That my eyes mist
I am amazed…

The Amazon Queen quietly speaks
The Moon Goddess nods.
I hoarsely whisper thank you.

The Queen smiles satisfied.
I follow her back into the forest.
I have an urge to turn around.
But I hold tightly to the moonstone.
Filled with gratitude
And some giddiness.
Who would have thought
Such delights wait to be found!

Tea in the trees

2005-09-13T14:20:00.000-07:00

Walking a well tread path
A crisp fall breeze catches me
By surprise.
It’s good to know Autumn is coming
After so much sun in Arizona and Italy.

I breathe in deeply.
A movement catches my eye.
Midnight with the star on her forehead
Greets me.
I sense a message from her:
Go to Duwamish Bay.

The Good Abbess has sent me a ride.
Thank you gentle Enchantress
Where ever you are.

We ride the trail and meet no bandits,
To my relieve.
Coming over the ridge
The awe inspiring surprise
Of that wonderful blue ocean.
The Isle of Ancestors nestles serenely
On the horizon.

I set up camp in a tree house.
It’s hardly rustic.
Opulent with velvet pillows,
Oriental rugs and tea for me.
On a plate of chocolates a card reads:

Welcome Luna,
Relax and prepare for your performance.

After a delicious cup of Earl Grey tea
in a Russian tea cup,
I write nonsense.
I reluctantly throw something awful together
and fall asleep.

Horns jubilantly announce
The beginning of the activities
I gather my things
As the half moon rises.

The Train to Forgiveness

2005-09-13T14:15:00.000-07:00

We set off with a light load:
Picnic stuff, pen and paper.
The grassy hill has a worn path
as wide as one foot.
The path leads straight up
And wanders near the edge,
Where you can have
a striking view of the bay.
Little boats dock
And children play in the surf.

A short walk and we arrive,
To a flat spot with a 360 degree view.
The sun is bright.
The sky is its most blue.
And here I write about forgiveness…

The seagulls cry out.
And with the magic earpiece I hear,
“The air is free and so am I!”

Under an umbrella
I write:

The Train:
from Venice to Rome

After settling in
I find my mother
dozing quietly near the window.

I want to write in my journal.
Flipping through
I find
an old entry about Leo’s birthday.
What was Leo’s favorite candy?
So I asked her,
Do you remember?
She slowly replies
with a deep chuckle,
Alcohol.

And that begins the unwholesome story
of my father.
I can’t get a clear view of him.
And when it is clear,
I prefer the mystery.

I would like to imagine him good and kind
But my mother knew him, very well.
He was a hurtful person.

My aunt gives me a different view,
But she was too young.

I try to keep the conversation trivial.
But the long drives to Las Vegas,
Reappear without asking.
The strip clubs
With my young mother in tow.
How awful.
How undignified.
How sad.

It breaks my heart for her.
How… Why…

She was pushed so far,
It changed her.

If she was innocent and sweet,
It made her slightly rough and callous.
And that just pisses me off.

I have tried to change the view of my dad.
But what do you do?

He was a big tipper.
He likes to show off…

While in Orvieto,
we stop at a lovely restaurant,
and order a five-course lunch.

I don’t drink by choice,
But I decide to have a glass of wine
with this fine meal.
We are in Italy after all.
My mother puts her head on the table
And sobs.
Crying out in protest.
We all stare at her,
Dumbfounded.
I fear a scene.

She makes me so angry.
She is always trying to control me.

From them on I move very carefully.
It taints our trip a bit.

But after some timid conversations,
I learn.
Her fear is the afternoon alcoholic.
At 36, I have never until then
had an entire glass of wine to myself.

On the train home,
we pass amazing landscapes.
I never thought I would
Spend time with my Mom in Italy.

Unshed tears, renewed anger.
I must move forward in this life.
I cannot hang on to old pains.
I make choices everyday,
That make me a worthwhile human being.
Each day is new.

The seagulls cry out.
We walk as my thoughts
go in and out of focus.

And there…
Hidden by an ancient oak
Is the Well Of Forgiveness.
A bamboo ladle waits.
I cup my hands,
With this magic liquid
And drink.

I think…
Not by magic
Not by force,
Can forgiveness be made.
By much working of the heart.
Can the edge of hate and disappointment,
Dissipate.

In this chosen moment,
I give away my icky heartache.
I give my pain to the open sky.
And she takes it.
Drink in lightness.
Drink in wonder.
Drink in freedom.
As the air is free,
So am I.

Roads, Stairways and Wings

2005-09-13T14:13:00.000-07:00

I wake sluggish
Finding a velvet bag at the foot of the bed
Its contents are light

The dim morning
Is full of honking donkeys
It’s chaos and they are all talking at once
Trying to get the attention of their chosen rider.

A yellowish donkey
calls my name in a sing song voice
Her name is Dorothy
and she wears a funny bonnet

After much fuss and confusion
We lurch forward into a single line
Dorothy starts to interview me
She wants to know everything
I try to tell her the minimum

A cool shivers passes over me
As we enter an oddly quiet forest
No birds call or breeze stirs
It’s still as death
Dorothy stops and hesitates

Everyone seems on edge
Strange whispering
The whispers become faster
then louder

A group of bandits
Surround us
Terrified
Mayhem erupts
We run in all directions

Finding my feet
I crouch low near a tree

Voices trail off
I am alone
I wait

Clutching my bag
I seek something useful
Finding the spectacles
I put them on
As if I had stepped into another world
I am surrounded
By little people who blink
On and off like fireflies
They wave at me
and start to push and pull me
onto a trail I could not see before

The trail slopes downward
And I am overlooking
A beautiful lake with a waterfall
It’s enchanting
I tip my spectacles down
And without them
The beautiful scene looks like a muddy bog
What is real here?

The velvet sack has disappeared
The little folk giggle and laugh
at the little wings
A floating candlestick lights my way
I put the little anchor in my pocket
Faeries hate iron
The medallion floats in the air
They seems to like the way it sparkles

Soon we are at a spring
And I am suddenly sleepy
There waiting for me is a bed of soft leaves
I sleep

Singing birds
Slowly waking
in a comfortable bed.

The fey must have done this
Where am I?
In a cave
I hear dripping water

The sky is soft pink
The fey motion me to go
I nod my head to them in farewell
And they happily wave back
The dear, silly, helpful wee ones

I journey up, over a small hill.
There I see a long winding staircase
to a brilliant marble building.
A carved serpents head
Spirals on the handrail

The stairs are murderous on the legs
After many stops and starts
I remember
I have tiny wings
I place them on my back
they flutter to life and lift me
to a grand entrance

White marble columns tower beautifully
A dark mahogany reception desk shines
A huge griffin waits

I register
The Griffin asks me with an elegant voice
to prove who I am
I have no Identification cards
I think she means something deeper, I am sure
I try to keep calm

I proclaim:
I am the daughter of Haruko
Who is daughter of Kana
I carry the bloodline of Shinjo
They who went before me
Bring me guidance in all things.
And I honor them.

A long silence
Then she slowly nods
And looks to her left
There a young woman smiles
I follow her to a room
And she quietly says

“Welcome to the House of Serpents
Rest and freshen up here.
A banquet will be waiting
to welcome all the travelers.”

Insomniac at the Bath House

2005-09-13T14:12:00.000-07:00

What does it mean when you are wide a wake at 2:30 am and it’s been almost 24 hours since may last cup of coffee?

Jet lag

Stripe down to nothing
enter the steam room
find a refreshing pool
gaze into the lake
watch and listen to the birds
my silver ring turn black from the sulfer, oops
have a cup of mint tea
coconut oil and water therapy massage

Ahhhh

And while I am at it
Sign up for a pedicure and a facial

Slide into cool sheets to sleep

Ancestors of the Red Pavilion

2005-08-15T03:19:00.000-07:00

For my ancestors.
May they hear me.

Red Pavilion

2005-08-15T03:18:00.000-07:00

The cold presses against me.
I pull my cloak tighter.
The ferry woman pushes from the shore,
She is quiet.
I wonder if the mist will clear,
it doesn’t.

We bump into land.
I cannot really tell if I am on an island.
The ferry woman solemnly nods to me.
I walk up a small hill
to a red pavilion.

The shoji screen doors are open to the night.
Inside a large fire pit gapes.
Covered from head to toe,
sits a man.
He calls me by my mother’s name,
deep from his throat, “Shinjo…”
I bow my head.
Yes, I am Shinjo, the last of this line.

I ask him “What am I to do?”
He looks up at me.
“Don’t you know?” he asks in a thick accent.
I grin. “I think I know, but I want to ask you.”

He nods his head.
“You are the last…remember us.”
“Don’t forget what the Samurai represents.”
“Call on their guidance. They will listen.”
I nod gravely.
My mother is very superstitious,
maybe for good reason.

“And you, the last Shinjo…
Will you bring honor to your family name?”

I bit my lip.
“I will try.”
“Try! You will try?!” he shouts.
He stands up and his coverings fall away.
He stands in full battle gear.
As blood trickles down from his heart.
I gasp.
“Do not try!”
“Bring honor to your family!”
“There is not other way!”

I fall to the floor and ask for forgiveness
To the floor I say,
“In this age, honor is not so valued.”

I hear the frightening sound of a sword being unsheathed.
My nose pressed to the floor.
I see blood dripping in front of me.
The sword is laid before me.
“Bring honor and do not fear darkness.”
“Be brave, be the warrior.”

I sit up in the Japanese style.
And understand.
“My blood runs through you,” he says.
“Do not fear death, do not fear failure.”
“Be brave and all will be well.”
“Be deliberate and do not regret.”

He puts the sword in its sheath.
My ancestor bows his head
as he holds out the sword to me in both hands.
I grasp it, thrilled by it weight.
I notice ornate decoration.
He looks me in the eyes,
I recognize myself in his face.

From my pocket,
I pull out a picture,
me and my mother.
I look at it and remember the day
we laughed on the grassy hill.
It is my favorite picture of us.
I give this to my Samurai ancestor.

He looks at it and presses his lips together.
His face contorts with pain and pride
as he looks at the picture,
his daughters.

I want to put my arms around him.
But instead I take his hand
and kiss his calloused knuckles.
“Thank you for this gift”
I hold up the sword most formally.
He smiles and replies,
“And I thank you for this, Shinjo.”

We bow to one another.
And I quietly take my leave.
Out of the corner of my eye,
I see him still looking at the picture.

I am oddly satisfied.
Bringing the family honor
is more than I have ever wanted.
I have wanted to escape my family
and here I am promising
honor…
to my ancestors.

Who, I understand now,
have every right to demand it.
I feel ashamed at my own brazen ideas.
To think I am without them.
They will always be with me.
I cannot escape them,
even in death.

The ferry woman helps me into the barge.
As we set back to the Hermitage
the heavy mist has lifted.
I can now see it really is an island
as the morning light turns the clouds pink.

Counting Memories

2005-08-13T09:00:00.000-07:00

One rainy day on my way to school I saw my dad at Topper’s coffee shop. He bought me and my friends hot chocolate and then I think he drove us to school. I went to Alice Walker Elementary School in San Diego. I have always loved hot chocolate.

Diana's Bell

2005-08-13T00:38:00.000-07:00

The Call

2005-08-12T12:04:00.000-07:00

The night calls to me.
To be out of this lovely room.
Into the wild darkness
under a crescent moon.

The breeze catches my nightgown.
I float upward into the clouds.
I hear voices and drums.
a flicker of firelight.

I hover near a campsite.
I see them…
Gathered around,
telling stories and mysteries
of forgotten times.

I settle on a nearby branch, to listen.
They call to the shining ones.
A voice answers on the wind.

Here and now is revealed.
The present is the time to act.
I watch sacred rites
and hear ancient words.

There is an ornate bell.
The old one,
rings its mellow pitch.
The fire blurs …

I wake in my bed.
What a strange dream.
And there, on the nightstand
the brass bell gently burnished
from much handling.

I take it in my hands.
And see a carved word, Diana.
A crescent moon design
weaves in and out intricately.

And then I remember,
The Gypsies.
The ones who remember
The Moon Goddess.

Distant Bells

2005-08-10T10:27:00.000-07:00

A distant pounding of earth.
A jangle of bells.
The breathing of a dragon.
I look up and see my ride,
A white beauty with brass bells.
Festive designs decorate her forehead.
Her ears perk forward as I reach out.
I pull out a carrot and flatten my palm.
Her large brown eyes blink those lovely lashes.

My guide hoists me up and we are off.
My beautiful mare runs across a field.
The moon is new and it’s very dark.
Light magically emanates from the trees.
Freedom! Exhilaration!
My hair falls free of braids and feathers.
And we are in darkness moving with the night.
My skirt blows around like a small storm.
I lean in closer to hear her breathe.
In this moment, I feel truly alive.

The Lotus Flower

2005-08-07T12:00:00.000-07:00

What do you do when you know things cannot be fixed? Daddy made his life and I have had to follow until I could make my own way. And now…what about Sherrie? The only sister, by blood I have. Yet, I haven’t seen her in 27 years. I still have the Dr. Seuss book she gave me when I was nine.

I wonder more than anything. But I am so afraid of what she will say to me. I have such a soft heart. I cannot armor it to keep me safe. She has grown children that I have never met. I am an aunt, but to who? She has been married many times. And I am afraid she will hate me. It is easier to stay away. But Daddy has been gone for 24 years and I want to know what she remembers.

Daddy is shrouded in mystery. He lived his life in the bottle and on the gambling table. Yet, I search for a deeper level that made me who I am. Is it strange of me to think there is something pure I can glean from a life of decay? He died when he was 51. So young, now that I am in my thirties.

I hate regretting. And wishing I had acted. But I have so much fear. And I must be brave to face my past. I strive like a lotus flower to rise above the muck, from which it is born.

The Door

2005-08-07T10:28:00.000-07:00

The journey is quicker than I thought.
I find my way onto a gravel path,
that leads to a giant tree.
I circle around
and find a funny shaped doorknob.
Pounding on this door is not the way.
I wait for something,
but nothing happens.
My journal calls to me.
I write and speak aloud my truth,
and with a tiny click, it opens.
Through a small doorway
down the hollow,
I enter a cave.
And there are thirteen doors waiting,
with one for me.

A golden door beckons to me,
I slip inside.
I find a simple room.
It vibrates with anticipation.
The things I need, I find with a thought
Yet, what I sought was not there a moment ago.

Blame it on Mercury?

2005-04-05T16:23:00.000-07:00

Today is a bad day, everybody has them. But today Mercury is in retrograde. That means nothing to me, but I can blame the stars for my bad mood and the power failure and my deadline. Sigh...

I feel like I am looking for light on the darkest night.

The Heart Shrine

2005-03-29T19:01:00.000-08:00

I created this Heart Shrine because we all have to recognize and respect the continuous beating of our own personal drum. But it goes deeper. Altars help us visually connect with what we may be working on. For me, I am continually working, refining and smoothing out the rough edges of my battered heart. And to fill this heart with love is the ultimate goal.

Appraise your heart

2005-03-28T22:59:00.000-08:00

I am planning to get my house reappraised and I started
to make of list of things I need to do. Clean up the yard,
make it neat. Clean up the house, make it neat and sparkly
clean.

And I started to think on a more personal level. What if
we had to get our soul and heart appraised? Kind of like
spiritual checking in. What would show? Does my heart
look like a closet overflowing, disorganized and full to
burst? Are my emotional scars showing?

I went to an amazing Egyptian show in Sydney called the
The Tomb of the Mummy. I was most moved by the last
thing a soul goes through upon entering The Field of
Rushes (the afterlife). They call it the weighing of the
HEART. Is that just too romantic of me?

If someone came to appraise your heart…what would
they see? What if you had a little warning to clean things
up. Is there really anything you can do to prepare for
that? Maybe not. Get your spirit in order. Focus on the
things that count. And what counts for you?

Just some of my thoughts.

Blessings,
Luna