Isle of Ancestors

Gaia Welcomes Leonie Home

2006-05-01T05:13:00.000-07:00

Her daughter returns home.
with love
Heather Blakey

Bringing Leonie Home

2006-04-30T20:42:00.000-07:00

le Enchanteur and Leonie Bryant's spirit bird taking her home to sleep in the Bower of Bliss

Pioneers who went before us

2006-04-20T05:24:00.000-07:00

Emigrants

Old men plough while sons grow cold
under the mountain

Prairie wheat fields murmuring golden and rich in the days
before harvest
the smell of grass—long hay newly mown dry crunching
under our running
We counted our days in puffs of old-man dandelions knew our
distances in the long rows of telephone poles.

At the base of the poles We put our ears to wood that trembled
messages of the great world
wind on our shoulders, telling, listening, and we knew that the time of our leaving would be soon.

The winds of migration were everywhere—in the v-line of ducks
and the wide sweep of Canada geese
We heard at dusk the calling and in the morning packed,
our bags growing fat with things we could not leave, memories of a hundred days of
our mothers

Grandpa

2006-02-10T17:38:00.000-08:00

Must have been back there somewhere,
don't you think?

A Card from Dad

2006-02-05T10:03:00.000-08:00

A Card from Dad

The other day
while searching
for something unrelated,
I stopped to look at pictures
made so long ago,
and there I found,
a postcard from Dad.

Among long forgotten images
of Mum and Dad,
and me
when I was small,
eight as I recall,
was
a sepia picture postcard
from Dad.
On the front,
a picture of
the First and Last House
on that glorious British Isle.

On the back,
the writing faded,
was the message.
Dear Vi, it read,
I’m sending this inside Mum’s letter
because I do not want it spoiled.
Keep it for a souvenir of me,
Love, Dad.

Seeing,
holding,
and reading its message now
after so many years have passed,
means more to me, I think,
than it did
when I was eight.

My Dad … he was my pal,
and though he never said
he loved me,
never hugged me,
I knew I was his buddy,
but was I not his daughter, too?

Those simple words
across the years
tell me that,
despite his silence,
he loved this child,
but couldn’t voice the words
that would have meant so much.

Two years later
and far too young,
he was taken,
ravaged by
the cancer that took his mind
and made him crazy.

Now that I am old,
his words are strong
and clear.
I am his daughter,
always was—
Love from Dad

Vi Jones
©February 5, 2006

Of Ancestors

2006-02-02T02:44:00.000-08:00

Lost in tomorrow
is the song of yesterbeen,
when I will foretell
of what I forgot to be
when I get another chance.

For I am right now
what I have always known,
but have been taught to believe instead;
and my father's father back unfold
must laugh at what could said.

For hist'ry retold
is as smoke unto the fire,
and ashes are nothing
compared with the warmth once shared
when I was taught to sing.

Look then to the mists,
my daughter, my love, my son;
for the songs we sing and joyful dance
still live in the soul's timeless view,
when all the words are gone.

He was the Same Bloke as Always

2006-02-01T03:14:00.000-08:00

I enjoyed the meal served in the residence
on the Isle of the Ancestors,warm hearty food
Travelling by sea gives one an appetite
On finishing ,over coffee I spoke to others
who had travelled the journey on the chinese junk
Some were suffering the after affects of sea sickness
Looking quite green around the gills ( as the saying goes in
fishing circles).
Faucon was one ...Well if you will live in the wilds of
Tennessee then what can you expect Faucon !
Others travellers were looking for a rest in a unmovable chair I think
We were not staying long I was informed,
so I excused myself, rugged up against the cold and went out into
the night.
Never dark on the Isle of the Ancestors I am told
There is a morning and an evening but very little in the way
dark as dark
I liked this idea..more hours in the day to get things done.
I walked on the path that went up the hill toward the barn
I knew that's where I would find Bert
He would be somewhere in the action of happenings and doings
and he was,welding torch in hand and goggles on.
Sparks flying as he stood at the anvil among items needing repair
Wheels from carts,big double iron gates,fire tongs,iron pot handles
to repair.
He did not see me ,his goggles with their dark glass made my prescence indistict
I must tell him I have a jar of goggle glass at home he left when he went so suddenly on the 21.12.1976..its in the back shed.
Not the shed he worked in. Dad's shed...that's gone since 1992 I put up a new one way down the back of the yard..but all his nuts,bolts nails etc are still with me....bit rusty from the sea air.

I stood awhile just watching him,never one to sit idle (as he called it)always busy ...but I did remember when television came he was the
first at night into the lounge to watch the news or any history program from other countries ( He had never left Australia) he liked to educate himself.
He saw me standing there,took off his welding goggles ,cut the flame to to the torch and looked startled as he realised who it was.
"For god's sake girl" he said "Where have you been ?,I havn't seen you for ages "..." I've been living in Port Dad" in the old house in Crichton Ave ... " Who's with you ?" he said....
"Just me Dad ,just me" I said....Ok that's great ,never one to be surprised was Dad..always took everything in life as it came ..only time he ever got worked up was when my Brother was in strife as a teenager..Like making a raft out of 44 gl drums and sailing out on Port Phillip Bay....He got one hell of a hiding for as Dad said
"Giving your Mother grey hairs"...Water police were not too happy either at having to rescue 3 teenage boys as the raft sank, on its way to Williamstown , only the main shipping channel to cross was their only worry
Time for a cuppa was Dad's motto,so we sat in the old barn ,talked about the state of the country,the state of the world,socialism as a failure ,greed as a way of life and war after war ,history repeating itself and never learning said Dad
Get off politcs Lois I said to myself.....ask him what he has been doing all these years....I got the idea that he really had
no idea he had been here for nearly 30 years ...
He was content....A meal, a bed, a job good health and no pollutents in his lungs from the factories and jobs he had worked on way back till retiring in 1967 ..giving him Asbestosis.

He looked well,ruddy complextion ,thick straight grey hair, same
strong chest and muscled arms....
A short man only 5'.4' very athletic in his time
played football,great swimmer,runner and trainer of runners,boxer in the amateurs..never drove a car until he was 55....always rode a racing bike to his work ...often 7 miles around the long way when the punt across the river was out.
We finished our 2nd cup of tea and as was his way....he got up and on with the work at hand ..excusing himself and promising to catch up with me in the residence later that night.
This did not upset me at all...I was used to a Dad who worked shift work all his life...he came and went at all hours.
If he wasn't at home he would be at a Trade Union Meeting of the Boilermakers Society in at the Trades Hall in Carlton.............
It was the way in those days ,we thought nothing of it..It had to be done ,someone had to do it.... We were proud of our Dad
Mum was never afraid on her own at night...and I have inherited that ..I can live on my own in my home and not worry at all.

We never did catch up again that night,it was just a fleeting time with Bert my Dad, It was time to return
the Ferrywoman and the Chinese Junk was at the jetty and I had to go
One does'nt stay long on the Isle of the Ancestors...Its really just a visit to catch up with, as we are told by she who knows all...
A Mentor
A Dear friend
A person from your family
A sibling perhaps ,a lost child,
Or even someone who made a difference in your life
Someone who as they say :"Has gone to the other side".

I walked down with the other travellers to the Junk and in no time we had set sail on our way back to continue the weeks that lay ahead in celebrating the Chinese Year of the Dog.

I knew all was well,I felt good .
He was the same Dad
He was the bloke as I had always known
Not perfect,who is?
But a good provider for Mum John and I
And I was to remember my promise to him,he once asked me over his favouite drink, glass of cold beer
that I would look after Mum ...
He said " You know if you look after her, you will have her a lot longer".
I did and she was with us till she died on 10.7.1991 Age 87
She died in the bed she and Dad shared since they married in 1935
quietly in her sleep.....
My brother and I often say " We would like to go Jessie's Way"..

And that ends my visit to meet my Dad -I use an Australian expression
" I caught up with The Old Man" meaning your Father or you Dad...
Not a derogatory saying just a compliment to Fathers.

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 1.2.06

The End

2006-01-31T19:34:00.000-08:00

For those that have gone before me.

Kavyn Brian Warren

31/01/2002

This gluebook was created using the prompt: last end final.

An Ancestor Be

2006-01-31T06:25:00.000-08:00

Regardless of your ability
to embrace the presence and influence
of ancestors, it is easy to acknowledge a debt
to 'what has come before' -- personally
and as a culture.

One might muse then,
on what kind of ancestor you will be --
what footsteps left on the sands,
what handholds etched
on craggy cliffs --
that might help children
find their way.

consider ...

REVOLVING

For those who drift only partly awakened,
I can be there --
need only be there --
be there --
be.
This is the finest of attentions --
to … be the hidden handmaiden of dreams,
to … guide in silence,
to … conduct a symphony of hopes,
to … gather discarded prayers into a basket of fairywind.
Hush -- hush, for though they slumber
by choice and Current blend --
someday they will remember,
and search your cheek
for tears of joy.

Ancient View

2006-01-31T05:35:00.000-08:00

In Mongolian Shamanism mythos,
the touch and relevance of ancestors
was embraced in several special ways.

It was believed that each person had seven souls;
some assigned (destined) to various dominions
as a return of spirit to source,
but others whose function was influenced
by the family that remained.

All souls spend a time in the 'Lower Kingdom'
from which they could sometimes be 'saved',
usually by the interaction of a Shaman.
This embraced conditions of coma
and near death experience. In both, the family
had to desire and petition for the return.

One soul hovered near the family home (camp)
in order to provide council and assuage grief.
Often people 'Heard' the voice of this spirit
as if they were still alive. Eventually this influence
diminished. However, the family by group will
or ritual could install this 'soul' in an object
near the home for eternity -- usually a favored
tree or rock, from which it's presence would be
known by future generations.

One soul went to the Upper Kingdom (Tengri),
To provide a communication link with the
demi-gods of the weather. People did not pray
to the Tengri itself, but to their ancestors there.

NOTE: none of this was considered 'religious' --
The other four souls returned to Source
Completely outside and distinct from the
Known and imagined worlds of the Three Kingdoms
(seven thousand years before the 'Rings'). While there
was no possible communication with these souls,
it was felt that the way a person lived their life
had an influence on how these souls behaved
in the shaping of the universe. These four 'aspects'
of being roughly can be equated with,
Mind, Soul, Heart and Spirit with which you
Might be more familiar.

Thus any ancestor might have influence on future
generations in a myriad of complex ways -- all revered.

Organised Disorganisation - Sepia Ancestors

2006-01-30T17:57:00.000-08:00

The way to the Isle of Ancestors was laid out before

me, in a way that I could follow, but knew

not where it would lead. None of it made sense,

over the water to the isle, in another time,

another place. I was robed in red, safe

and protected, purposeful and expectant.

When I reached the guide she said nothing,

unusually quiet. I glanced in question, not

knowing why I was here -- none of the thoughts

I had found answers in the mist that smelled

of ancient incense and sounded like a sea of small

bells. I felt a discontent, a sense of needless hardship

inside, a heaviness that mildly aggravated.

"Long ago," came a voice, "This was how it was."

A guide pointed to a patch of ground, stubbornly held

by womenfolk in dark clothing, proud but worn by it.

At first I didn't understand. "They are so sombre,

clothed in dark up to their necks, yet handsome and

intelligent..." And they seemed to have something to

say, as the guide indicated toward them again.

"You want colours," they said. "Yes," I said, facing

them with respect and kindness.

"Well it's no good asking us. We come from long ago and

far away. We don't remember when the sea was alive

with the sound of small bells."

Confused, I sat on a mound of simple earth, bare of

life and song. I saw them, bound as they were in manner,

as surely as if they had been tied up by an absent

captor. Inside me there was a vague sense of aggravation.

"Why did you come here? You know we are set in our

ways, as surely as if we were made of stone."

"I thought to..." I said, part of me knowing it was unnecessary

to go on.

As I spoke with them, clear as a bell, some curled up and went

to sleep in their dark robes, a deep and peaceful slumber.

"Our time was lived. We were made for the dark. We were

made that way..." the elder said. In a corner of her

eyes there was a tear that sparkled like a diamond. A hint

of the bell sea? I thought.

"Be at peace," I said aloud, "I have nothing to admonish you with...you are the

foundation that was. I accept you. I accept your strengths as

part of the whole, and bid you rest now."

"Well and good," said the elder, proud and regal looking, her

hair tied back in an ancient design, dark and lovely. "Then

we, no I, shall give you something, something from us..."

I looked down to see an ancient sepia dragon sitting serenely

in my lap, important against my red robe.

"I feared you would not..." I said, looking from the ancient art

back to my elder, whose regal countenance had always

made my sentences fall away.

"Understand? We know the patterns of the earth, and we were

one of them. Each pattern is different, and we lived our pattern. Now

you may add the colour that we need, in your own pattern."

I smiled then, finally understanding the disorganisation of

organisation. The thread lingered, yet was forever separate,

forever joined, but different. It was meant to be different. This

was the truth of the elders, to whom I had sworn absolute loyalty.

My elder opened her robe a little, and beneath the dark was

a range of colour, that had always been there, yet was always

obscured. I was moved by the sight. "You knew it was there," I

said.

"Always," she said, "Yet not, if you understand me."

Expecting her to sleep, like the others, in their calm state,

like wind-formed rocks that seem to lean of a need for the earth,

and the grateful peace of support.

"You would want to rest now, too," I said, rolling the ancient art into

a scroll to take with me, and rising from the mound of earth.

"Not yet," she said, with a slight smile. "I am your guardian, as

strong as any you will find. My name is as you know it, and

will always be..."

The heaviness lifted from inside me, and I knew it was impossible,

and unnecessary, she would think, to thank her. She had always

done as was expected, and knew the hard roads. I told her I was glad she

was here, glad she was there to watch that I would remain,

forever the same, yet forever different. She said that

was the way of the ancestors.

Soul Sisters on Isle of Ancestors

2006-01-30T03:46:00.000-08:00

Heather and Sibyl acknowledge
that they are one
are companions
who
have walked this way
before

For All My Ancestors

2006-01-29T16:05:00.000-08:00

Forever entwined
we will always
be as one

my ancestor

2006-01-29T03:58:00.000-08:00

i never knew my paternal grandfather. He passed away a couple of years before i was born.

Throughout all these years even when i was growing up, i only regarded him as a distant relative, someone i never knew.. until recently. A couple of months back, as i was clearing dad's place after his funeral, i came across Ah Gong's photos. For some reasons unknown to even me, i took dad's black & white old photos and amongst those, this photo of Ah Gong.

Grandfather was originally from Chaoyang district in Shantou city, Guangdong. Born to a poor Teochew family, he and his 2 other brothers (there were five of them) left home to find their fortune in Nanyang (South East Asia). That was in the early 1900s and he was only he his late teens then. He settled in Singapore while his brothers settled in Malaysia and Brunei respectively.

I was told that he was an industrious, ambitious and extremely hardworking man. He started his Chinese rice wine business from scratch. Although a teetoller and a non-smoker, he created his own self concorted rice wine which he sold to anybody and everybody who wanted to drink. Every morning, he started at 6am to sell to all the merchants in Chinatown and more often than not, would end his day around 10pm.

Dad said he was a tyrant - a stern, autocratic traditional Chinese businessman who would not hesitate to cane his children if they play truant from school or if they refused to do their calligraphy writing. Like most of the successful Chinese merchants before the 1960s, he had a few wives - 3 to be exact, and many children - 2 adopted sons, 6 sons and 6 daughters. (How he managed to rule his big household and maintained family harmony, i certainly have no idea but he must be a darn good manager and head of the family)

Ah Gong, although we have never met, i must tell you that I am very very grateful to you because whatever you achieved have lasted through your next 2-3 generations.

Ever since we took away your ancestral tablet after dad became a Christian 20 yrs ago, we stopped worshipping you... but this year, for some reason, God wants me to get acquainted with you again.

Ah Gong, I pay my respects to you. i hope i will do you proud and i make sure i will take care of Fourth Aunt for you and for Dad.

Have a good New Year.

Chinese New Year Visit - Spirit Quilts

2006-01-29T00:04:00.000-08:00

During your visit to the Isle of Ancestors, as a part of Chinese New Year 2006, take the time to make a spirit quilt like one of these by Patricia Montgomery. Don't feel compelled to make your spirit quilt from fabric.

You could simply take a large piece of paper and create a quilt collage using papers and glue or you might draw quilt squares and fill them in with a combination of sketches and collage. Alternatively you might produce something using photoshop or make a spirit quilt style altered book.

The possibilities are endless.

Ancestoral visit

2005-12-24T00:03:00.000-08:00

I come to the island
tonight to remember
blood that runs in my blood
all those whose footsteps marked their passing
sailors who travelled far
and brought their stories
teachers who told the tale
babes who listened cuddled safe in strong arms
young wives who became grandmothers
grandmothers whose young lives
were cut short
for tonight the pibroch rings through the mountains
and in far away places
young lovers dance once more
to the mellow tones
of a saxophone
and the children's piping voices
remind me that I too was young
once

visit to the Isle of Ancestors on All Souls Night

2005-11-20T02:07:00.000-08:00

I stood on the quay at Duwamish looking out to sea. Although it was dark, the moon had already started to rise. It was now almost full and the night was so clear that I could see a silvery path of moonlight across the sea almost to where I was standing. The sea water slapped against the old timbers and the outgoing tide sucked at the weed growing there. I could still hear the last calls of the rooks flying home to roost. There were several barges lined up along the quayside and occasionally they bumped against each other. One eased its way out of the group and nosed its way towards me. A tall figure in the bow invited me to step aboard. As I climbed on to the barge I could see that the figure was a woman. She was much taller than me and her limbs were heavily muscled. She was wearing a sort of tunic, girdled at the waist by a strip of cloth or a thick cord. She had sandals on her feet. I settled myself as best I could and stared eagerly ahead of me as she pushed us off.
We followed the moonlit path across the sea. Silhouetted against the moon I could soon see the rise of a small island. The ferry woman beached the barge and I clambered down on to the shore, wetting my feet in the process. At the top of the beach I could see a grove of trees and, as I approached, I could see they were apple trees. With the moonlight shining on them they could have been the mythical silver apples of the moon and the leaves clinked together with a metallic sound whenever the light breeze blew. I followed the path between the trees and realised it was a continuation of the moonlit path on the sea.

Ahead, there was a mound. In the middle of one side was a doorway made up of two immense upright stones topped by a massive lintel. This must be a tumulus or a long barrow I thought to myself for I had visited many as a child. Torches burning at the door cast enough light for me to see the beginning of a passage and, at the end, a faint red glow. I followed this path downwards. The passage was narrow and only just high enough for me to walk upright. Pitch torches were placed at intervals along the walls so I didn’t stumble or fall.

I emerged into a shadowy hall. In the centre were the glowing embers of a fire. A hooded figure was seated with its back to me. I walked around the fire and sat down opposite. “Is that you, Heatherbell?” a voice asked. I realised it was my grandfather, the one who had come to live with us when I was about eleven. “Heatherbell” was his pet name for my mother. I was immediately transported in memory back to the last time I had heard him say that. I had had a car accident and had hit my head, been hospitalised while checks were carried out on me and then released. My husband had been away from home at the time so I had gone to my parents’ house. Although they were both out my grandparents had been at home. “Hello grandpa. No, it’s Carol. I’ve had an accident and hurt my head” I said, in my memory. “Grandma is just making me a cup of tea”. “I thought it was your mother. I wasn’t expecting you” he said, still in my memory. In the cavern I put out my hand to clasp his and felt the warm, papery skin of his hand. I was living away from home when he died and didn’t get back for his funeral. “I’ve come to say goodbye. But before I do, there are things I want to talk to you about and I want to ask your advice”. “Don’t talk for the sake of talking and unless you have something nice or useful to say, don’t speak”. He had learned the art of economy of speech. He let go of my hand and slipped off his wedding ring – a wide, plain red gold ring – and put it on one of my fingers. He had very fine hands, not much larger than my own. Did he know I’d always coveted his ring? Now it was his turn to ask me something. “Are you using your voice?” I twisted in my seat, uncomfortable in the telling of my tale, for my voice or rather my creative voices were the problem. Later I felt something hard against my hip. I had forgotten my hip flask. I took it out of my pocket - spirit for a spirit. I held it out to him and he breathed in the fumes of whisky as he unscrewed the cap. It had been his favourite tipple and Grandma often refused to let him have any. “I can’t drink this, but thank you anyway. It still smells as good as I remember it. Come and sit by me for a minute before you go”. I would have sat on his lap again if I could. As a child I’d spent many a happy hour on his lap watching TV – as children we were limited to one hour an evening. Once I got too big to sit on his lap I would sit on the floor leaning against his knees.

It’s only now that I realise how much I have missed him. But I’d had a new life to lead. When he and grandma stopped talking, he spent a lot of time sit ting in the greenhouse in the garden. My sister and I each had a small garden plot next to the greenhouse and it was from him that I learned my love of plants and the countryside. I spent hours in the greenhouse with him listening to tales of his childhood - amongst the bulbs, compost, fertiliser with my tabby cat. Tales of how he and his brother had used an old door as a raft on a pond and it had sunk. How one of the boys had got his arm stuck in a hole in a tree trunk when they had gone bird-nesting.

I sat there holding his hand, as close to him as I could get. Eventually he said “it’s time for you to go, my child. Remember how important it is to communicate, to sing with your heart and use your gifts. You must talk, it’s no good leaving things unsaid or they build up until something breaks and people can't read your mind". I wanted to hug him tight to me but he was so frail I thought he might break. Tears stung my eyes as I turned to leave. By the time I got to the entrance they were streaming down my face. I stumbled out into the night. A cold re-birthing after the warmth of the womb-like cavern I’d left behind me. I was on my own again.

The ferry woman was waiting in her barge for me on the beach. “Welcome back my dear” and her strong arms encircled me and helped me back in. “It takes most of them like that, going back inside”. I sat down again and she steered the barge back to that other, harsher world. I realised I had returned to the womb of memory.

Many years later my mother gave me his wedding ring and grandma’s.
Re-reading this, I am reminded of White Owl Island and the journey through the labyrinth. It seems to me that they could, in fact, be one and the same place .....

Spirit Servant Maintains A Vigilant Watch

2005-11-01T03:33:00.000-08:00

The Serpent Queen gives le Enchanteur the greatest gift of all. She reunites her with her Spirit Servant who will willingly do her bidding.

Experiences to last a lifetime

2005-10-31T22:12:00.000-08:00

Some months ago
I visited
The Isle of the Ancestors
I met her there
She was the Ferrywoman
She has been gone 5 years
Five years Sunday 30th Oct 2005
Her son Chris
Picked some roses from her garden
He put them in a vase
On the table looking out
On to HER garden
Now his to look after
Red,Yellow,White & Orange
So beautiful,very old roses
I met her on my trip
To the Isle of the Ancestors
Many months ago
We chatted long & wisely
I told her He (Her Son)
Was well,I was looking out for him
She was content,she said
She had no pain from the Cancer
That ravaged her body for many years
He is not smoking cigarettes she said
No, No, No ,I said, she knew
I was telling the truth
She had known me since I was a new born
In October 1936
She was my neighbour,my friend,my boss at work
She was my Mothers Guardian
When I was not there
She was the one who looked after
Neighbours in her street
She was the chicken soup maker
She was the neighbour we all
Need to have
She was Maureen Ferguson
An Irish woman with a
Firey Spirit.
She is Chris's Mother.

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 1st Nov 2005.

Catching Up With My Brother

2005-10-31T21:47:00.000-08:00

I have looked forward to this night for the past several weeks. There was so much I wish I had said to my brother before he died. Who knew he would die so young. I was just beginning to know him as an artist. He was a fairly quiet, reserved person, so I thought giving him his space and not pushing for information would allow him to gradually open up to me. I know that pushing wouldn't have helped any, but I do regret not being more communicative on my part, even if he didn't answer my e-mails.

As soon as the sun set, I was at the docks waiting for a ferry ride to the Isle of Ancestors. There was only one ferry ready that early. The ferry captain looked at me with knowing, gentle eyes, got me settled, and kindly left me to my thoughts. I searched my memories for glimmers of Stan. He was 7 years older than me, so we didn't interact much as kids. Even when we were older, he had his life and I had mine. By the time I hit high school, he was taking some part-time classes at college. Everything I was doing was elementary to him. He was a certified genius. After high school he went to a school to learn drafting. He worked with a band doing their lights and sound. He went to college to learn computer programming and that's the industry he remained in. I remember him writing programs for games on his computer. He let me play one with him once. I beat him, so he deleted the game. It was obviously too random if I could beat him. ;-)

As the ferry approached the Isle, a shiver entered my body. I remembered the fire in the cave when I visited here before. I told myself it would take the shiver away, even though I knew the shiver had nothing to do with a chill. I was plenty warm. I wobbled a bit standing up so the ferry captain helped me ashore. I stood on the sandy beach for a moment to regain my balance. I assured the captain I was alright because she said she wouldn't leave me otherwise. I knew this was just nervousness and fear, though I wasn't sure why I was feeling this. I wasn't meeting a monster or learning a hard lesson. I was just meeting my brother to say those things I wish I had said years ago.

The ferry far from view, I watched the stars and the moon shimmer on the water. I sat down in the sand for a moment and took in deep breaths of the night air. I calmed my nerves and reminded myself, all will be well.

I headed down the familiar path to the stoney entrance to the cave that would bring me to Stan. I wondered if he would be here already or if I would have to wait for him. I wanted to run through the caverns to the meeting room. Knowing I would be disappointed if he wasn't there when I arrived, I held myself back, just a bit. Along each passageway I strain my sight in the search for a shadow, a profile, a hint of a presence. When the entryway finally comes into view, I can't see the fireplace or the meeting table. I had forgotten from my previous visit that you never know who is in the room until you enter and sit at the table. I pause at the entrance, take a deep breath, and enter the room. There, at the table, is a hooded figure. It's just got to be Stan! He couldn't have let someone else take his place this evening. Not this time. Not tonight.

I slowly make my way to the table, praying with each step that my visitor is Stan. There's so much to say, so much to learn...so much left undone. Please, don't be in death as you were in life -- closed off from me.

Trembling slightly, I sit at the table and look down at it's well-worn wood. I look for a hand on the table and see a man's hand. This has to be Stan! I look up to the image in the photo Stan took of himself in June. This isn't his best picture, but it's the most recent picture I have of him, so I suppose that's all I can see. I reach out and hold his
hand and look into his eyes. With tears rolling down my cheeks I cry, "I'm sorry!" My sadness shows as concern on Stan's face. "I know you didn't want us to be sad, I know you wanted us to throw a party in your honor...but I am sad. I know it is selfish, but I wasn't ready for you to go! I wasn't prepared. I thought it was all a fluke. I didn't know your cancer was so bad...but, you didn't let us know."

Stan nodded with a sorrowful expression on his face. He was about to speak, but I knew I needed to say all I had come to say or I would never get it out.

"Stan, I love you. I know I never said that when you were alive, and that was stupid on my part. I care about you. I wish I would have shown it in a million ways. I wish I could have been there for you. I wish I would have told you so many things, like, you are one amazing artist. I admire you and your work. Your images inspire me and amaze me. I wish I could have talked with you more about your art and your photography. There was so much I could have learned from you. I was hoping we could work together as artists as we got older. But I never said any of this. I thought I had time. I don't know why a little red flag didn't go up when you first mention having cancer. I should have said more and done more THEN! And now it is too late. I'm sorry."

I looked down at the table and wiped the tears from my face. I could tell Stan was surprised...that he didn't know how much he was cared for and respected and looked up to. He squeezed my hand, holding it tight. I saw a tear of his splash on the tabletop. I looked up to his eyes again and saw his tears but noticed he was smiling.

"You don't know how good it feels to be here and hear you say those things. There's nothing for you to be sorry for. You did as much as I allowed you to do. If you would have tried to do more, I wouldn't have let you...I may have even gotten angry with you. I didn't want anyone to do anything because I didn't want to believe I had cancer. I didn't want to believe it could beat me. The more people did things for me, the more I knew I would resign into the disease. I thought I was smart enough to beat it. I thought if I did everything the doctors told me to do and added a few natural remedies, too, I had nothing to worry about. Robin beat it! I could beat it!"

His tears came harder and faster. Now I understood why he couldn't let the cancer take its course. He had to be in control and take his life before cancer did. He couldn't let cancer win. He never believed it would get as bad as it did...and since it had, he couldn't let it continue.

"I'm so sorry cancer ended your life. I wish doctors had better answers. I'm sorry you felt so defeated. Your last days must have been hell on earth."

"They were the worst days of my life. But since then, it's been all uphill. This moment, here with you, though it brought back the pain of my last days for a moment, it has also brought me great joy. I'm sorry I won't grow old with you. I'm sorry we won't share our artistry together. You do know that I will always be with you. I know it sounds trite, but I will. You have the photos I've taken. Use them. Let them inspire you. We can still colloborate with our art. Use my photos to create. My spirit, my vision remains in those photos. They will guide you to look deeper and create."

"I hope I can do your photos justice. They will not die with you. I will continue to share them with others so that they may see the beauty of your soul."

"I know that whatever you do with my photos, you will only make nature's radiance shine through even more. From what I've seen, you aren't a bad artist yourself. I know your intensions are good. I can see the goodness about you. By the way, your spirit glows in an abundance of color. I wish I could take a picture of it so you could see."

"I think I can see it...at least a little, just by your description."

"Anyway, I know you'll do wonderful things with my photos. You can't go wrong when you intensions are good. Use them as you would an artist's palatte. Have fun! Celebrate the beauty of nature. I am thrilled to give these to you. And I know you will treasure them more than any money I could give....which, you obviously know, I had nothing to give."

"And I wouldn't want your money, Stan. If I could wish for anything, it would be for you to be back...to be happy and healthy....to be here to share in the joy I'll receive working with your photos...to get your opinion...to see with your artistic eye."

"Like I said, I'll be there in every photo. Listen. You'll hear me. You'll witness my artistic eye. You'll learn more from my photos than anything I could have taught you."

"I will listen. I will try to hear you. I'll do my best."

"And that's all you can do."

"I love you."

"I know you do."

I knew there was nothing more to say. I was drained of words. I was filled with his presence and knew I could carry on his vision. I was thrilled by the opportunity to use his photos in my art. I knew, no matter what obstacles may be ahead in dealing with the legalities of it all, it will all work out. Stan will be watching over the situation and will make sure nothing keeps me from working with his photos.

I have some mighty big shoes to fill, is all I could think as I made my way back to the ferry. Stan's artistry is amazing and he was always so humble about it. The spirit of understated greatness accompanied me back to North Star Studios. I spent most of the night on the roof reliving my conversation with Stan as I watched the stars and planets. I knew Stan was there, in the sky, riding the shooting star I saw heading towards the horizon at dawn.

All Souls Night on The Isle of the Ancestors

2005-10-30T22:07:00.000-08:00

Tonight the veil between the worlds is said to be thinner than any other night of the year. On the Isle of Ancestors tonight I was met by my Grandmother and Great-grandmother, who helped me rewrite a poem. I visited with my Grandfather and considered the difference between memories we form ourselves and memories that we learn from others. As I wandered across the Isle, I came to a rippling stream where I was not at all surprised to find my father fishing.

Not all ‘ancestors’ on this Isle have passed beyond the veil. Just upstream from my father, I found my mother casting her line across the riffle in the fading twilight. “What are you doing here?!” I asked, surprised.
She smiled and answered, “fishing.”

The following poem was written for my mother, Zetta Benson Peterson. On her next birthday she will be ninety. Besides being a first class fisherwomen, my mother was a professional dancer and a dance teacher, as I was myself. When she was carrying me, she couldn’t keep down anything but water-cress and lemon-lime soda. She has always said that I “entered dancing.”

I Learned

They would ask me . . .
How long have you been dancing?
When did you begin to learn?
Were you four?
Five?
Who did you learn from?
What lessons did you take?

I danced
I said . . .
Before I drew my first breath
For my dancing soul learned joy
Before my mortal body was complete
I danced
I said . . .
From the beginning
I learned
I said . . .
From the heart that beat around me then
A halcyon heart full of sunshine and peace
In the safety of the dark and warm
I first felt the promise of a world of love
And I danced . . .
For joy

~ Edwina Peterson Cross ~

The Fisherman's Daughter

2005-10-30T22:05:00.000-08:00

Defining self. A fascinating proposition. Who am I? Am I my name? I have a couple, which one is me? As you can imagine Winnie and Edwina are not the same person at all. I write under several pen names as well. Is one of those really me? Do I define myself by what I do? I am a poet. I am a writer. I am an editor. Do I define myself by what I love? I am a dancer. I am a Stratford Shakespearean. I am a lover of Celtic Music. Do I describe myself by my imaginations whirls? I am an aspen dryad. I am otter. I am twenty to thirty characters stranded in various predicaments in sundry halves of novels and pieces of short stories .I am the three hundred and sixty others that are in my mind trying to make their way to the page. Do I define myself by my harsh reality? I am a diabetic. I am an asthmatic. I am a Fibromyalgia patient, an arthritic, a migraine sufferer . . . no, I'm not going to choose that one.

Do I define myself by my relationship to other people? I am mother. That one definitely seems the most basic, the truest of blood, bone and heart. But doesn't it describe half the population of the earth? "I am a Fisherman's Daughter," someone said. My Daddy was a fisherman. Does that make me a Fisherman's Daughter?

Today is my Daddy’s birthday. He has been gone from us now for several years and I miss him. Am I, indeed, a fisherman's Daughter? A professors daughter? An intellectuals daughter? An authors daughter? A public speakers daughter? A politician's daughter? A gardener's daughter? A singer's daughter? A story teller's daughter? An athlete's daughter? An artist's daughter? An Aggie’s Daughter? A Sigma Chi’s daughter? Yes, I am a fisherman's daughter. I am all that and more, because he was all that and more.

My Daddy stands in the silver Logan river in his brown chest waders and the river slides around him as if he is an organic part of it's flow. The sun backs up against the western mountains and the sliding silver water burns brilliant with sudden shimmering gold. The mountain tops swallow the sun and twilight fills the canyon with purple sage stillness for just an instant . . . then the wind comes up, flowing clear and green down the canyon and it kisses a riffle on to the surface of the water and the fish start to jump. Then my Daddy clamps his pipe in his teeth and casts his line out into the river; the filament disappears in the sky, snapped into the glisten of the last burnish of sun. My Daddy is a big man, an athlete, a football player, but when he casts a line, he moves in a single graceful arch that could be a dance . . .wrist, arm, shoulder, back, line . . . line . . . line . . . FISH! Up on it's tail in the last glitter of the setting sun; a rainbow trout dances backward toward my Daddy's net splashing a kaleidoscope of river into the evening air; a kaleidoscope of memory that smells of fish; that smells of canyon; that smells of leather, bay rum and pipe smoke; that smells of pine; that smells of sage; that smells of twilight and summer, that smells of home.

Edwina Peterson Cross
October 27, 2004

I painted my Daddy, Dr. Edwin L. Peterson, on top of one of his own oil paintings

Grandpa

2005-10-30T22:04:00.000-08:00

My earth memories
Are vague
In soft distorted pieces
A child’s telescoped thoughts
That bring me small scattered pictures
Of an old, old man
My few childhood recollections
Are fuzzy far off images
Of white hair
And faltering steps
But, these broken fragments are not the reality I hold of you
I have found the clear, clean truth of you
Preserved and honored in so many different thoughts
I have heard the whsipers of your gentle words
For they echo in my mother’s heart
I have felt your peace
Still flowing strong through the house you made a home
I was taught the power of learning
By the woman you loved
I learned the power of love
From the daughter you taught
I feel your legacy
When my throat closes with emotion
When my heart swells with joy
I feel your touch in my blood
As I realize in awe
The sweet strength of tenderness
The powerful promise of love

And today
In the still silver hush of dawn
I sense a soft warm wind that gently lifts the corners of the veil
I feel hymns of love wash over me like a blessing
And I listen
For your voice

~ Edwina Peterson Cross ~

For My Grandfather, Serge Ballif Benson

The Bonnet

2005-10-30T22:03:00.000-08:00

I wrote this poem thirty-five years ago. It has been published several times and I have had two different people tell me that they have it in their homes, framed on the wall. I’ve never been I never liked the way it ended. The original ending was short of what I meant, it was just wrong and I’ve never been able to fix it, partially because the original version was in my head and I couldn’t get around it.

The poem is written from a story told to me by my Grandmother, Melinda Caroline Nelson Benson. It tells the story of the bonnet that her Grandmother, Karen Marie Jensen, carried across the ocean and across the plains from Denmark to Utah. Karen came to Utah with a handcart company, having to literally push all her belongings across the plains. Crossing the long prairies and several different mountain ranges, the company had to constantly lighten their load, leaving belongings all along the trail. In Denmark, Karen had been a seamstress, an artist who did the finest needlework on expensive clothing and linens. She brought with her a bonnet that she had made, a confection of silk, satin and handmade lace that she felt was the most beautiful thing she had ever created. No matter how hard the trail became, or what else she had to leave behind, Karen would not leave her bonnet. It was a thing of beauty, made by her own hands and she said that no matter what happened, she would take into her new life something of grace and beauty, as a sign of faith and hope. The “I” in my poem is my Grandmother, the old woman her grandmother. My mother still has the bonnet as well as the rocking chair that my Great-grandfather made, held together by whittled pegs, because they had no nails.

I visited the Isle of Ancestors and was met by Melinda and Karen, two women of learning, courage, spirit and heart. Both women believed strongly in knowledge and beauty, in hope and faith. Together the three of us rewrote the ending of this poem. It came out in rhyme, and now carries the meaning that I originally intended for it, but have been unable for thirty-five years to find.

EPC

The Bonnet

I walked her home
For I was young and strong
And I felt good for giving
My arm to one that shook with age

She sat in the sturdy rocking chair
That her husband had made
With just a knife
For they had no nails
And told me of “The Crossing”
And I felt good for giving
A minute of my youth and streaming life
To listen

She showed me the bonnet
Lovely still, though out of style
And told me how she had carried it
Through the dirt and the rain
And I looked
And wondered about giving

She wove me a wealth of wisdom
While I sat at her feet
In my first understanding of life
With aging silk and satin
A treasure of trust in her shaking hands
The beauty she would not leave behind
Still mirrored in her soft old eyes

She taught me the truth of tomorrow
Living means giving in age or youth
Knowledge and beauty are seeds of hope
And dreams are the birth of truth

~ Edwina Peterson Cross ~

For My Great-grandmother - Karen Marie Nilson Jenson
My Grandmother - Melinda Caroline Nelson Benson
And My Mother - Zetta Benson Peterson

All Soul's Night Greetings for all my Ancestors

2005-10-30T03:21:00.000-08:00

To mark All Soul's Night I took a ride with Baba, in her black swan, to the Isle of the Dead and met the Queen of the Serpents who guards the entrance to the underworld. I took a small vile of pure Castalian Water, collected at Delphi and we drank to creativity. The Serpent has blessed all travellers on the Soul Food Silk Way.

Return to the isle of the Ancestors

2005-10-23T23:37:00.000-07:00

I have come again to the Isle of Ancestors, for recent events have made it imperative that I do so.

My ferrywoman, the strong and capable Maeve, rows me across the bay. She senses a change in me.

``The last time you came, there were gaps and mysteries in your ancestry,” she said. ``I take it some of those gaps have been filled now?”

``Yes,” I said. ``And there is something I have to know.”

``I hope the island can provide the answer for you.”

I was so impatient I slipped getting out of the boat and splashed up to my waist in water. Maeve, laughing, helped me to my feet and sent me on my way up the beach.

At the apple grove, I squeezed the sea water out of my skirt as best I could, and then hurried on to the stone doorway.

The scene was just the same as before – the great hall, the dying fire in the centre, a hooded figure seated nearby. But as I sat down and said, ``Greetings ancestor”, this time I knew it would be very different.

The hands that drew the hood back from the shadowed face were my mother’s hands – I knew them so well. The face that smiled down at me was my mother’s face – her eyes, her mouth, her thick wavy black hair.

But it was not my mother – it was my grandmother Hilda, whom I had never met in life.

``I knew,” I said. ``I knew you would be here.”

``I’ve waited a long time for this myself,” she said. She clasped my hands in hers, and I told her what she was longing to hear – about my mother, the baby she had been forced to give up for adoption, the daughter she had searched all her life. Her story was a sad one, but common for the times she was born into, when young mothers were still ruthlessly separated from their children and told they would `get over it’. No woman should ever be punished for having a child. Hilda had never gotten over it. Finally freed to marry the man she loved, she and he had gone on searching for their child, longing to be reunited with her.

Tears flowed down Hilda’s face as we talked, that face that was so like my mother’s. The photograph we had been said showed a still young woman overshadowed by a sadness she could never escape. Now, as the tears flowed, I prayed her soul would be at peace. But there was one question I needed her to answer.

``Grandmother, many years ago – before we knew about you – my daughter spoke to a medium, who said there was a guardian spirit watching over us. All she could say was that it was an older woman, a shadowy figure – a grandmother. We weren’t certain who she meant until we saw your photo. Have you been with us all this time, and we didn’t know?”

Hilda wiped away her tears. ``I never stopped looking for my daughter,” she said, ``and when I found her, I could not leave her again.”

The gift we gave each other was something precious beyond price – a first and only embrace – until we meet again.

My collection

2005-10-23T09:54:00.000-07:00

Tokashiki Island, Japan

I am showing off my collection of shells. But what I like most is the silhouette of an overlook pavilion in the distance. For me this is the Isle of Ancestors. This is my mother's land. It is like a dream in sunshine. The waters are so clear I thought I was snorkeling in the movie Finding Nemo.

The Secretary's visit to the Isle of Ancestors

2005-09-12T19:56:00.000-07:00

When I left the Island of the Great White Owl to go to the Ancestors my fingers were tired from sending messages so I decided to call upon the Ferry Women, who came very promptly and had kindly set up a long bench with a soft mattress in order that I could stretch out and dangle my fingers into the cool water of the river. The mountains of history rose on either side as we drifted toward the jetty.

I farewelled the good women and carefully started off by foot down the cobbled pathway, my cane seemed to pause and tremble now and then as though the very stones had messages. Tall hedges hid the buildings. The path was steep but as my footsteps grew lighter and quicker I rounded the first hill and found myself gazing over a series of meadows. The fields marked by hedges, the cottages surrounded by gardens, great trees seem to have been preserved as the tracks of the farm machinery circled around them.

My narrow pathway lead me at last to a tiny village, one street, one pub, an old stone church, a school, houses with doorways stepped down to the roadway. Thirsty but fearful I stepped into the pub and asked for a drink.

“You are a stranger here, what brings you to the village?”
“ I came to rest, to read, to find hope after storm, to seek the distant cousins I knew long ago.”
“Your name?”
I told him. “Ah! that one” he laughed, “I’m not sure I should tell you, Miss, for he was my school master, gave me five good ones once across the backside......I’d not done any homework for six weeks, and stolen Jennie’s pen to catch up. Old boy’ had eyes in the back of his ‘ead,’ he said.”

O Dear, was I going to find my grandfather so severe. I had to ask.

“ You should find him up to the school house, he’ll talk to you, that’s for certain, talked to everyone who’d listen: politics with the old Earl, religion with the Bishop,
the sins of the kiddies with the parents, housing with the tenants_ old bird was talking himself out the day before he came here.”

I ordered a double whisky, drank it down and proceeded through the village to the big stone cottage.

Sitting on the wide veranda, two people, the white-haired school master trim in a well-cut suit, the lady wife in a long black skirt, white shirt and a wide deep hat “Good morning, dear, we’ve been waiting for you, your cousins have all been coming through, Virginia in her actress costume, Joyce in her dancing slippers, Dolly as round as always with a great basket of flowers, John in uniform, Ted was wearing a stetson, so many of you, we’ve not seen Pitt, and you, we know are only visiting. Welcome, my dear, what can we show you here?

I told them that all I wanted this visit was a time to learn why they had come to the village all those years ago.

My grandmother’s tiny frame shook with laughter. “We were very young, young teachers with two tiny boys. Your grandfather wanted to save the world so he started in a village school. We came up from London on the train. He left that night to fetch our things. The big storm came. The wind howled, the boys cried, I cried, the branches swayed across those windows. All the night wrapped in some blankets too afraid to find the upstairs rooms. But with the morning all was fresh and bright, the village women brought me fresh baking and two young girls offered to serve as maids. They stayed ten years.

“You were busy enough, the grandfather’s eyes sparkled, four more sons and a daughter born in that room, busy enough but still found time to ride that tall bicycle of yours all round the village and to teach the kiddie classes.” He caught her hand.

And you, Grandfather, did you save the world? “ Ah, no my dear, but look behind you we did change the place a bit. There are good solid houses, our students to senior school and some to the university. The workmen get a decent wage, the village has electricity and running water. They said I spent my family time on politics, perhaps I did. I’ve been sorry that I could not know my boys better before they left. Still they’ve been forgiving as they passed this way, Will was a bit late seems just the other day he came, telling stories as usual, some fibs, of course, didn’t mention two wives at once to us.”

“Now John,” she intervened, “ don’t be too hard on Will, he spent his last years well. I wanted so much to say goodbye to him, to Ted, to Ernest, and my darling, Harry but they were all so far away when I left. Our Dorothy came here so early . She met us at the jetty when we reached the Isle. Why don’t we all gather in the Hall of Ancestors tonight and party for our visitor. She won’t be allowed to be with us for long. She has a job to finish on the other shore.”

The evening came, and all the clan gathered under the canopy of the storied sky, all in this sacred isle, each choosing the age that he loved best: My father with his children in his arms, his tiny wife nearby; the wild uncle with ship’s company, both wives laughing; Ted in his gardening clothes, spade in one hand and one of the kids with a bucket of raspberries trailing behind; Charlie, Ethel and their five; Dorothy always young, for she did not grow old; my dear Aunt Jessie singing the songs of the music halls, the naughty ones she sang for me, and lastly my own dear Peter, listening.

I rested in an upstairs room for two whole days, and read the books, the diaries, Grandfather’s day book, and the records in his family Bible. When the call came I was almost unwilling to leave. My cane touched the sacred stones , tapped down the hill to the waiting ferry. I left the Isle knowing that they would all be there waiting to greet me when I came again.

The Secretary

My Ma Ma

2005-08-23T11:45:00.000-07:00

I looked up from where I stand on Duwamish quay. The night is clear;
the waxing moon rises over my shoulder, and I hear the gentle rolling
of water past the barges that are lined up in the Duwamish. My eyes
fell on a worn looking barge with purple paint peeling off everywhere.
I looked up and met the eyes of a ferry woman with silver hair. She
smiled and signaled me on board. My feet moved forward and I found
myself on board the barge as if in a trance. I was soon in the middle
of the moonlit sea and under the bright moonlight, I could see the
outline of what Alice, the ferry woman told me was the Island of
Ancestors.

Alice stops by the shore and I saw a grove of apple trees. These were
the biggest apples I ever saw and their fragrance filled the air. I
could see a moonlit path between the trees and I follow it to a mound.
In the centre of the side is a doorway made of two immense upright
stones topped by a massive lintel. There are two torches burning at
the door providing light for the entrance into a passageway. At the
far end of the passage is a faint red glow.

I was suddenly gripped by fear and I froze in my tracks while cold
sweat just poured from my paralysed body. I could feel a surge of
energy from beyond the end of the corridor. I heard a sharp sound that
pierced the still night air and the sound grew into a series of
shrieks. My mind will filled with images of all the evil that I know
in my imagination and I saw something flying towards me from the red
glow. I wanted to run but I could only stare ahead. I could not even
close my eyes... The flying object grew and split into four as it
neared me... and I start to realise to my embaressment that they were
the 2 pairs of love birds from the bay! The birds flew past me into
the night and I was immediately able to move.

I proceed down the corridor and emerge into a shadowy great hall. In
the centre is a hearth with the glowing embers of a fire. Seated
before the fire facing away from me is a hooded figure. Across the
hearth from this figure is a bench. I circle halfway around the hearth
clockwise and sit facing the figure. My grandmother looked up from the
hood and smiled. She has passed over to the other side fmore than 2
decades ago, but her smile was so full of love and compassion that I
felt absolutely no fear. I just looked into her eyes and savored the
connection and intimacy of the moment.

"You looked confused" Ma Ma said as a matter of fact. "What is it that
you want to know?"

"Ma Ma, I have rediscovered my true nature and purpose in life, but I
am so scared of the uncertainty that awaits me... ..." The words just
flowed past my lips in our dialect, as if they had waited all a long
time for this very moment.

The gentle smile never left Ma Ma face as she reached into her pocket
and took out a handkerchief. She handed it to me and I recognised it
to be my own... the smell was so familiar and I was suddendly back to
ahen I was 5 years old again. I was washed by a deep sense of peace
and joy.

"You only need to stop thinking and start living" she wispered, "Let
your inner child come out and play, you have imprisoned him for long
enough, he is a part of you, a very important part".

"Make a commitment to me now. Promise to accept and love this inner
child. Can you do it?" Ma Ma said in a serious yet calm tone.

I hesitate foe a split second before replying, "Ye... Yes".

"How?" She asked. "Tear a page from your journal, write down your
commitment, sign it and give it to me... ..."

I begin to write as emotions bubbled out of my spirits and flowed down
my cheeks as tears of life. i felt alive again as I penned these
words.

"I promise to accept and love my inner child and be the best that I
can be. I wil not imprison myself anymore and I reslove to start
living fully every moment of my life starting from now!"
She waved her hand and I complied and finished my circuit around the
hearth, go behind her, and pass out of the mound and back along the
path. I was still crying uncontrollably and it feels so fresh and
good.

I wiped my tears and re-board the barge to Duwamish as the first light
of dawn breaks over the eastern horizon. It wasn't long before I was
back at the Duwamish Inn feeling more complete and at peace than I
have ever been since I can remember... ...

Lest We Forget

2005-08-22T19:14:00.000-07:00

Anna Marie's post got me thinking about grandparents :) I am a musical person, and I can relate nearly every experience in my life back to the song that described it for me. This is a song by The Waifs called Lest We Forget. It's quite sad, but it's beautiful.

Lest we forget,
your deeds as a younger man
like how when you were nine,
you fell in love because
she was the first girl
you'd seen throw a cricket ball
You knew that you'd be together
for the rest of your lives
now you sit alone in the sun,
in the backyard,
feeding the birds
reading the newspaper
thinking about
the love that you shouldn't have lost
Love that you lost,
love that you shouldn't have,
love that you lost,
love that you shouldn't have,
love that you lost,
love that you shouldn't have lost
When i was a child,
i didn't see her much
she passed away before i was five
i was so young that it barely affected my life
then one day when i asked
you told me she was magnificent
all that i had was your word
and a photograph
but that look in your eyes
told me all that i needed to know
Love that you lost,
love that you shouldn't have,
love that you lost,
love that you shouldn't have,
love that you lost,
love that you shouldn't have lost

My journey to the Isle of Ancestors

2005-08-22T19:05:00.000-07:00

As I make my way to the docks darkness is falling. There’s a full bright moon already up and illuminating the few clouds surrounding it. I’m slightly concerned that I’m going to reach the dock and there’ll be no-one there, as I am running fairly behind, but as soon as it comes into sight I see one barge, close to the pier, with a lantern shining and the figure of a woman waiting. I quicken my step, not wanting to keep her waiting, and reach the barge puffing slightly. The woman looks at me intently for a moment, then smiles slightly and nods and steps onto the barge. I follow her lead, and am surprised to realise that the rear of it is covered with cushions and silk material. I quickly sit down, thinking it’s likely I will fall out – I don’t want to spoil the beautiful material by getting it wet, and I don’t much fancy making the entire journey across the river shivering on the wood bottom of the barge. As I settle myself in, I can hear my guide quietly singing. Her voice is pure and clear, as it weaves it way up and down, dancing around the melody of a song I do not know and cannot understand, but find incredibly comforting nonetheless. She does not speak to me across the river, but continues to sing the whole way. I nestle in amongst the silk and cushions, and as the gentle sway of the water rocks me like a mother cradles a child, I stare at the sky and listen and wonder who I will meet and try to think of what I should ask them. I am actually disappointed when I feel the gentle swaying motion stop as the barge runs aground on a small beach. My guide is already on the sand, looking at me expectantly. I step off the barge and look around, slightly bewildered.

“Where do I go” I ask her.
She smiles at me and nods her head toward a path in a nearby grove of trees.
“but-“ she gently lays a finger across my lips, telling me to hush, and nods towards the trees again, then turns and starts singing again as she moves back towards the barge.

I look at the trees somewhat hesitantly, and slowly start off. Soon I pass through a doorway and down a corrider into a great stone hall. There is a fire in the centre, and two benches either side. One is already occupied by a figure wearing a long cowled robe, it is thick, soft material and deep purple. I cautiously sidle around the fire to the other bench and sit down and wait. I’m not certain if I’m supposed to speak or wait to be spoken to, I still don’t know who it is as they are looking at the ground and the hood is shadowing what I may be able to see of their face. Minutes pass as I wait. I am beginning to think that perhaps I’m in the wrong place after all, maybe that is why the hooded figure is not speaking to me, when I hear a small noise. I look around the cave – it sounded like the growl of a small animal. Again!! Where is it coming from? The noise slowly gets louder and louder until I realise. It’s not a small animal after all!! It’s snoring!! The hooded figure awakes with a start at my sudden laughter and looks around quickly. “Papa!!” I exclaim and jump over the fire to grab him in a fierce embrace. My grandfather lets out a hearty laugh and gathers me into him.
“Oh I’m so sorry dear! I must’ve dozed off as I was waiting” he says as he kisses my head like he did when I was a child.
Suddenly he becomes serious and looks hard at me.
“You have a question. I need to tell you some things first though. I cannot tell you what you don’t already know, so ask carefully child.”
I look at him and think hard. All that I can think of is the morning he left, I was called to rush the hour to where he was to say goodbye, and I didn’t make it. The hundreds of other questions floating around my mind disappear, and all I can ask was
“You know I tried, don’t you? You know I tried to get there to say goodbye to you”
He smiles at me, his serious face suddenly gentle and nods.
“I know princess. I know you tried.”
“Now, a question for you that you must answer honestly. Are you doing all you can with all you have?”

I look at him slightly puzzled. “what do you mean?”
“Are you doing all you can with all you have?” he repeated. “Are you doing all you can to make your life what you want it to be? Are you doing all you can to make your dreams come true? Are you doing all you can to be kind and generous to other people? Are you doing all you can to be honest and truthful? Are you doing all you can to cultivate and share your talents? Are you doing all you can, with all you have, to live your life well and kindly?”
My eyes drop from his gaze. I know the answer to this, but I cannot say it looking at his face.
“No” I whispered.

His hand lifts my chin to look at him again. “There’s no wrong answer princess, only a lesson to be learnt from the question, so go and make sure you do all you can, with all you have, from now on.”
As his hands move away I realise he has put a necklace around my neck. It is a St Christopher medallion he had given to my Nona, then to me when I was a child, after she died. I carried it for years and had thought for long that it was lost for good. “We are all travellers princess, whether we ever leave our homes or not. We are all travellers, we are all students and we are all teachers.”

I remember that I can give Papa a gift too, and let out a cry of dismay when I realise I have left my bag on the barge. Frantically I search through my pockets to find them empty.
“I haven’t got anything to give you!” I wail, tears streaming down my face.
Papa reached out his hand and caught one of my tears, and instantly it crystallised into a solid drop. “You have many gifts Lisa, for now I will take this until you come again. When you go back into the world, you can find a gift you feel suitable, but I do not want material trinkets. Every song you sing, every story you write, every act of kindness, every picture, every sunset you allow to take your breath away, every heart beat you let yourself feel, every dream you realise, every truth you tell – they will be your gifts to me, it is up to you what you give me, and how generous you are. In the meantime, you must return. You have a journey to make and your ferrywoman awaits you.”

I fiercely grab on to him one last time, trying to etch every detail of his embrace in my memory. Gently he peels me off and steers me to the door through which I entered.
“Go princess, the fire burns low and the night passes. I will see you again”

Nodding dumbly, and clutching the St Christopher pendant I stumble back up the path to the ferry, tripping and meandering because of the tears blurring my vision. I feel the ferry womans gentle hands on my arm and she guides me to the barge and helps me sit down as we begin our return journey. This time she is silent, there is only the sound of the water. I’m still not sure how I get back to my quarters at the hermitage, but when I wake the sun is shining brightly through the window and I am positive that it was all just a dream, until my hand moves tentatively to my neck and I feel the pendant. The emotion and grief of the night before have given way to comfort and certainty, and a smile crosses my face as I jump out of bed to go find a gift for Papa.

Lisa

Journey to the Island of Ancestors

2005-08-22T11:47:00.000-07:00

The meditation room in the hermitage gave me enough time to get in tune with myself and my soul. It truly was a peaceful experience and at this point I’m waiting for more. I think of myself as a complete unit- mind, spirit, body and soul –and that all of them are getting to a balance were each can leave in peace with one another. Especially my mind that is always in the clouds and not were it belong. But still I like it when she takes me to places I never been or want to be.

There was in front of my room door a piece of paper lying in the floor. I pick it up and opened it. The journey was going to take me know to another place, this time an island. But for what it is called it seems it was not going to be a regular island. You see it is called The Island of Ancestors. A chill ran down my spine for no reason I can explain. But I figure it was going to be an experience I was not going to forget. If it was an island of ancestors, maybe I might find great philosophers of old. Like Aristotle or maybe Pluto. Who knows!

I went to the stables to see Güarionex whom was waiting for me and was ready. Rob, the Horse Whisperer, was holding him. When Güarionex saw he got much exited moving his head up and down. I smiled and went to him immediately giving him a kiss on his forehead. He made a sound with his nose that tickled my neck. The Horse Whisperer climbed his horse and I climbed Güarionex. We set out as we did the first time we met going as fast as the wind like we were on a race against it. It was really lost of fun.

As we slowed down Rob told me a thing or too about the island. He explained that weird things happen to those who visited it. Some come out full of joy others are traumatized by the experience. None are allowed to tell what happened there to them. For that will decrease the curiosity in people and travelers alike who want to visit the island. But it seems it is a most popular place for the waiting list is long. Only especial invitations are granted like the one I had. He instructed me not to pass this opportunity.

“Have you been there?” I asked him curious for he spoke of it as he knew it very well.

“Yes.” He answered looking a head to the sea were you could see the Island from afar.

“How long was it that you visited it?”

“Many years ago.” His voice sounded sad and his expression changed completely. I wanted to asked but remember what he had told me of not speaking of the experience gain on that island. I wonder if he was one of those who where traumatized by it. But it seems that was not the case for if it was like that he would not have accompanied me here and would have stayed in the hermitage.

As we approach the coast a ferry was visible from the top of the hill we were standing. A beautiful island was visible in the distance. It was all covered with nature and looked as an emerald was drop in the middle of the river. I breathed deeply for I was a little nervous because I didn’t know what to expect.

We went down the hill and got closer to the port. A woman was waiving her hand to us and we approached her. She was very happy and a little weird I might add. Well this woman was not a woman and you could see that after getting closer to her. Her skin was covered with scales, green ones and she had no ears. Her hands and feet were a strange mix of fingers and fins. Her arms were like those of a human being but she had no nose and her mouth was of a round shape like those of a fish. When we got down of our horses and stood in front of her I smiled slightly. Rude of me, of course, but I was perplexed with what I saw. To think I should expect to encounter everything in this journey.

Suddenly, the fish-woman opened her arms wide and went to Rob who was doing the same thing. They both grab their hands up high and hit their foreheads. Then they laughed hard.

“It is good to see you again, Rob.” The fish-woman said but it sounded more as if she was underwater than in land.

“It is good to be here, Trucha. I’m here to take her to the Island of Ancestors.”

Trucha turned to me and did the same as before. Probably that was the way she greeted people so I did the same. The hit in the forehead was not that hard and it was a cool way of salutation for you feel like you are under water for an instant. Then just like that you feel like you are back on land.

“I have been expecting you my dear. You may live the horses here they will be taken to a place were they can relax and stretch their legs. Come on board for everything is ready for you but we have to wait until nightfall. It’s the best way to navigate for the guardian of the Island is sleeping. He gets a little cranky during the day for the spirits are sleeping and he doesn’t want anybody disturbing them.” Trucha said.

We got on board the ferry and ate on the deck that had been prepared with a dinning area. We chat, drank and laughed for hours until the stars covered us completely. That’s when Trucha got up and said to me:

“It is time. You may wait here while I navigate.” Said Trucha standing up from the table then she went up some metal stairs and got into the cabin on the second floor of the ferry were the control room was.

I stood up and walked towards the rail as I saw the elegant night covering us completely. The stars looked like tiny diamonds sparkling elegantly. The breeze was soothing but it carried a strange smell that was sweet. Maybe it came from the island were flowers bloom at night and perfumed everything around them like a special gift for those who dare to go to the island.
The journey on water took approximately fifteen minutes and the island was very visible indeed. A port could be seen getting nearer as we got closer. It was lighted by torches that help see the beginning of it for the ferry fish-woman to see her way to it. When we got to the port Trucha came to me, as I was very nervous for the time had come for me to live and start my journey into the depths of the Island of Ancestors, and said:

“We will wait for you here until you come back, we can not go any further. Follow the torches until you find an apple groove. There is a path that goes inside the groove, take it. Keep walking forward; do not take any other paths, only the one that goes between the apples trees. If you do take another path you will be lost. When you reach the end of the groove you will find a mound and there a door, you must go through it. The rest is up to you.”

“What will happen if I take another path?”

“The ancestors will claim you. I do not need to say more.”

“Very well, off I go.”

I got down from the ferry and walked to the path as instructed, always looking at the trail beneath my feet. I didn’t want to get lost and be claimed by the Ancestors of the Island. Passing the apple groove I took one apple to eat it as I walk. At the end of it I saw the mound and in it the door. Two large torches lighted the way, I made my way through.

The passage was narrow and dim, it went downward. At the end of it I saw a light like that of a fire. I hurried my pace so I could find out what was in that room at the end of the corridor. Once there, in front of a great fire, sitting on an armchair there was a person covered with a black hood. Slowly I got near the figure, once in front of it I sat down on a marble bench. I waited for him or her to say a word but nothing happen. Nervousness ran through my whole body as I stared at the person in dismay not knowing what to do. My head was trying to understand the situation but it was too complicated for it had never been in this kind of situation before.

Then, the person’s hands removed the hood and there I was looking at his face. My jaw dropped as I was astonished and out breath. For in front of me was a man that had and still is the love of my life. The person that even thou passed away many years ago still had a special place in my heart. Tear drops came from my eyes as they could not believe what they were seeing.

It was inevitable an explosion of sentiments took over me completely. He approached me and hugged me tight as he used to do when I was a little girl. His smell was already gone from my memory and I could not remember it as I smelled him when he got closer. I cried more and more trying to hold on and didn’t want to let go of his grip. I was not letting go ever again.

When he died the only person he wanted to see was me. But the doctors at the hospital did not grant his last wish for I was a little girl and wasn’t allowed to go to the rooms. I knew he was gone for his sister, my great-aunt, came down crying inconsolable. But it did not hit me until my mother explained to me what happened. Then and there I knew the Lords of Time had denied me of a moment that was mine, of a wish that might have changed my life and my healing process. Now that I was there holding him tight no one was going to deny me of that moment.

“I have missed you so much!” I sob.

“I know.” He said.

“Grandpa, I wish so much you could still be alive. Sometimes I think life would have turned so different for me if you just been there. I know I would have been someone else with you by my side.”

“But think of all the things you would have lost if our story was written differently. Think of my great-granddaughter. She reminds me of you so much and it made me so proud that you though of me when naming her.”

I laughed full of joy and looked at his blue eyes. They were as I used to remember.

“Well” he said “You are here to ask me question. What would that question be?”

“I just want to talk a little longer. I don’t what to ask questions right know. Can we just talk please?”

“You see, mi reina, we will have time for that in another life. When God sends for you I will be waiting at the entrance to greet you and for ever be together. Know we have but little time to spend and I want to answer what ever question you have for me.”

“Then I shall stay here with you. So we could have an eternity know and not later!” I exclaimed crying.

My grandfather dried my tears and his hand felt soft. Looking at me straight in the eyes he said:

“I can’t let you do that. There is too much at stake. Besides you are needed back there, Versaly needs her mother and our family too. Think of your grandmother that loves you as much as I do. Your mother, your husband and of your brother that even thou he sometimes looks as there is no hope for him there still is. But you must be there and as always be strong for them.”

He kissed my forehead gently and I finally stopped crying understanding that my time with him was limited. I grab his hands tight and smiled once again not knowing what to ask.
“I have always asked myself if you were proud of me. Of what I have become and what I wanted in life. You have always been in my thoughts when I think of my life. What would you say or do or advice?”

“There is no doubt that I have always been proud of everything you have accomplished in life and of what you want of it. I know sometimes you feel alone and with out guidance but I’m always there for you. Look for me inside your heart and feel the warmth of my arms hugging you when ever you feel alone and lost.”

We both smiled and I kissed his hand. The fire dimmed a little and my grandfather looked at it and said:

“Time is running out. Know I have a question for you.”

“What is it?” I ask curiously.

“Will you promise me to take care of yourself and our family?”

“Always.”

“Then, please heal your heart of my loss. Do not cry for me with sadness but with joy for I am in a better place know. A place you will be when your time comes. So no sad faces only happy ones, ok.”

“I promise.” As I said that we hugged for a few minutes and I felt in peace with myself as I accomplished one of my most desired dreams. To see him one more time before living my life to the place he is now.

“I have a gift for you grandpa. It’s a lock of Versaly’s hair from when she was a baby. I want you to have it so you could have a little of her until you can finally meet her.”

“Thank you. I see her everyday you know even thou is from afar I’m always watching over her and praying for her. Here’s something for you too. I think someone lost this and couldn’t find it.”

He opened his hand and inside it was a small image cover in plastic of the Sacred Heart he used to wear everyday. It was lost when my brother and I argued about who should have it. My heart rejoiced when I saw it for I thought it was lost for ever. He had taken it to guard it and to give it back when the time was right.

“This means so much to me. I’m just sad I have to go.”

“Me too but will see each other again and spend eternity together.”

“We’ll do that; I will hold you to it.”

We hugged again and he gave me his blessing. My heart, my soul and my spirit felt like crying again but I hold it back. I had gained what once was denied to me, a final goodbye and a farewell. That moment right there could never be replaced.

So I got up and walked away only looking back once to see him smiling and throwing a kiss to me saying:

“This is for your grandma, but don’t tell her is from me. Just give it to her.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I walked away feeling the tears come down my cheeks. I kept walking toward the port just looking at the relic my grandpa had given me. When I looked up I saw Rob, the Horse Whisperer, waiting for me at the port smiling happy to see me. I stopped to look back to the trail that had given me such an immense gift hoping to see a final glimpse of him. But he wasn’t there. Smiling joyfully and content I turned back to Rob and climbed aboard the ferry.

"Fet"

2005-08-19T02:41:00.000-07:00

My grandfather Kenneth Melford Fetterly. I daydream of him often. All I have are pictures and stories from my mother as he passed away suddenly two years before I was born. "Fet" as he was affectionately known to all had a wicked sense of humour. The stories and visions of him came back to me at the Isle of Ancestors. They always make me smile (and feel rather proud).

My mother, her brother, and parents all lived in China for many years because "Fet" was the head of Foreign and Domestic Freight for the Canadian Pacific Steamships Co.. As was their station in life at the time they had amas and cooks and houseboys to help them manage things around the house. Fet had his routine of a pipe, special lighter, and ashtray that lived on a small table in the "throne room" for the times when he attended to his "daily constitutional" as it was politely referred to in those days. Much to my grandfathers frustration the houseboy would constantly "clean up - and out" the things off of the table after Fet's visit. No matter how hard he tried to explain to the houseboy that he preferred his things be left alone, his beloved pipe and such were always taken away. Now, some of you may know that the Chinese (at least back in my grandfathers day) were highly superstitious. Apparently it was quite the sight to see one morning the houseboy come running out of the bathroom white-faced, and screaming in Chinese to the other house staff that the bathroom was haunted. There was much ado and fuss as they all raced to the bathroom to see. It seems my grandfather had finally had enough and he had glued the pipe, matches and ashtray to the table!

My other favorite story my mother told me which is rather bittersweet is of the years they lived here on the North American continent and "Fet" had a great travelling companion for a long time. He and the gentleman took the train into the city to work everyday and it was their habit to pick up a newspaper at the train station and have a little friendly competition to see who could do the daily crossword puzzle the fastest. Day after day, month after month my grandfather consistently beat the other gentleman much to his anger and frustration. One day my grandfather died suddenly from a heart attack when settling a strike in England and his travelling companion came to my mothers home to pass on his condolences. He found my mother on the front steps and sat with her for a few quiet moments. At last my mother said to him "I suppose it would be alright if I told you this story now that daddy is gone". She continued, "Every morning daddy would get the newspaper delivered early here at the house and do the crossword before he left for the train station". "That is why he always won". The gentleman's face grew red and he exclaimed "that cheater!" "all these months he's beaten me" and then grandfathers friend broke into tears along with my mother. A bittersweet memory of a wonderful man with a cheeky, mischievious, sense of humor. I so wish I had a chance to know him. I know one day we will meet.

Bobbi

Ancestors

2005-08-17T13:24:00.000-07:00

My ancestors are ghosts. They drift in and out of the haze. You see, I never really knew them. My grand parents on my father's side passed on when I was very young, though I do remember sitting by the river which could be reached through a gate at the bottom of his garden. This was in North Wales, in the village of Corris. I remember a man sitting in an overstuffed chair but I can't see his features. I do know that he worked in the slate quarries when he was younger. I don't recall my grandmother at all. The only women I remember seeing there were aunts that lived nearby, or were visiting.

I do remember my grandmother on my mother's side. She lived in Haverfordwest in South Wales. The Grandfather King that I knew was her second husband and not my real grandfather at all. My mother's maiden name was Rees. I think Grandfather Rees was gone before I was born.

Grandfather King worked in the brewery and, much to my mother's ire, thought it prudent to feed me a tot of hard cider now and then. He was my buddy.

My grandmother was a little woman with jet black, straight hair. I recall the smell of moth balls. But mostly I remember her kitchen with the fire always burning brightly and with a huge kettle hanging from a hook above the flame. I used to sit on the settle, a wooden seat with a high, straight back, and storage underneath, and watch her cook over the coals. The settle was uncomfortable to say the least, but it didn't bother my childhood bones.

I didn't see much of them after my father died. My mother and my grandmother became estranged and when she, my grandmother passed on, my mother put me on a train and sent me at age twelve to attend the funeral.

My father was my buddy, too, and when he passed away at age forty-one I was devastated. He was way too young to die.

I look at pictures of my father and I am as proud of him now as I was then, even though he was the one to inflict the punishment I supposedly deserved, usually on my mother's command. He was the one, you see, who wore that wide leather belt. I think it probably hurt him more than it did me.

My sister was born in 1937 but lived only seven years. She contracted TB-meningitis from the school milk program. My mother was never the same after that and as I got older we drifted farther and farther apart. My sister, you see, was her favorite, the little girl she wanted. I was a tomboy. My father had wanted a son so when I came along he promptly started calling me Sam and taught me to hunt, fix cars, and ride his motorcycle with him. Perhaps I do my mother a disservice, but I feel she resented losing my sister when she had less-feelings, I think, for me.

I asked her once when she was in her declining years to tell me about he father and mother and her childhood. She told me in no uncertain terms that she did not want to talk about it. So I am left with the ghosts who drift in and out. But, I always wonder who am I and where did I really come from.

Vi
August 17, 2005

michelle's The Summoms

2005-08-17T11:58:00.000-07:00

Island of Ancestors
My ancestor summoned me. Seated with his back to me, he waited before a round hearth burning in the center of the stone floor. Long shadows cast by a glowing embers flicker on the stonewalls of the Abby’s great hall. A path of carved stone circled him like a labyrinth. It meandered to a wood bench, continued round, and formed the complete arc.

Cloaked in a deep blue hooded robe, his garbed arm motioned me inside and then swept out toward the bench. I turned, took two quick steps left and stopped when a voice said, ”Michelle, think. If you continue, you will walk into the future. Is it the future you want or is it the past?”

“The past.”

“Then you must move against time to find your answer.”

I walked counter to time, faced my ancestor and sat on the bench. The vague memory I have of his face is from single digit years. He was old then. He is old now, but the same, with a face not defined so much by age and wrinkles, but by experience. He pushed the hood back and his hair, a familiar sungold red of reflected fire, gleamed in the dim light. It’s a color that skips through the generations, bypassing my dad. On me, it became a red gold highlight glinting in dark brown.

My grandfather’s eyes, eyes I gaze at in a daily mirror inventory, are Sicilian blue-gray, a lit fire of amusement, and they smiled at me. His eyes are his legacy passed from son to daughter to my sons.
He is fifty-year fast forward, in face shape, personality, and coloring, a reincarnation of my oldest child, Shane.

“You give a him en a Irish name.” He laughed.

A smile lit my face. I nodded, remembering stories are rarely told about my Dad’s family.

My grandfather left Sicily as a young man. He married a girl of sixteen; one so naive she didn’t know how her pregnancies happened. He brought her and my two uncles to the promised world, land buried in the Allegheny foothills of rural western New York, the village of Falconer, home to autumn’s colorful hardwood trees and relocated Italian immigrants.

Little was said about my grandfather’s arrival in Falconer. Signs posted for employment stipulated, “No Italians need apply.” He found work because they thought he was Irish with his red hair and fair coloring. To survive, he didn’t speak at work, but insisted my Dad and his siblings become bilingual and Americanized. He emphasized the need to blend in and become citizens, except in the family home they spoke the old language and lived the old school Italian way.

He changed his last name from Federico to Frederick and his first from Ignatius to Tony. Ma, changed hers from Constantina to Mary. Franco became Frank and Karl became Cross. My dad, little Giovanni, became Johnny. Later, my grandparents would adopt a daughter, Rose Marie. Ma, the story goes, needed someone to help with the household chores and the small corner grocery store they opened and operated from the front of their brick, two-story home until they were stopped by age.

He handed me a small paper bag. Inside were life lessons, messages given since childhood. Candy bars, wrapped in colorful paper. He said, “Almond Joy is a for happiness an a because some a times one should a feel like a nut. Snickers is a for laughter. Lotsa Hershey kisses for love. A $1,000.00 candy bar, success. A Heath bar, with its sweet outer coating and its hard amber core is a for adversity removed is a
inner strength. A Baby Ruth bar, life is a game an a to be a winna you must a touched all a you
all you bases to reacha you dreams.”

“Thank-you, Granpa.” I stood up and hugged him., something I don’t recall ever doing. I was so young when he died. “I wish I had something to give to you.”

“Michelle, will you a do a sumptin for me?” I nodded. “You can give a me the gift of remembrance. Honor the entrepreneurial spirit. Keep a going with the things you know are a right in a you heart even if it goes against what others say and social climate says you a no good. This a family it is a family of survivors, even if there are only a few of us left.”
I reached into the bag of candy and handed him three kisses. I smiled and said, “One for now, one for later and one for when you go to bed.” I laughed. “Oh, grandpa, so that’s where that saying came from.”

Ancestors of the Red Pavilion

2005-08-15T02:43:00.000-07:00

This image is in honor of my ancestors
who have reminded me to be brave.
Beauty is just a by product, luckily.

My ancestors

2005-08-15T02:13:00.000-07:00

Beaver, Maree and Gail in Ireland, 1949

Beaver built the swinging boats in the background

My ancestors
Hitched the horses to the wagons and traveled with the dawn.
At night they camped
Under the stars and lit their fires to roast rabbit or stolen pheasants.
My ancestors
Called no place their own and everywhere their home
All they owned
Was bundled into the wagons, under the beds, overhead in lockers
My ancestors
Left little trace of themselves as they moved through the world
Little but stories,
Told round the campfire and passed down through the generations.

My father
Rose with the dawn to tramp the fields looking for the horses
No room for hay
So the beasts were turned loose at night to forage their own food.
My father
Welcomed the invention of the internal combustion engine
Although
He still often had to leg it when the motors broke down.
My father
Fished and foraged for his food, and entertained the crowds
In a tent
Lit by flaring Tilly lamps and candles in glass jam jars.

My mother
Cooked on a small temperamental kerosene stove outside the wagon
She washed by hand
And hung the sheets over bushes, and ropes looped to trees, to dry.
My mother
Was not born a traveller and she walked in two worlds
One our world
And one where the houses never moved and tea was always served at five o’clock.
My mother
Kept some of her old ways – she loved to read and write long letters
She taught me
The beauty and the joy of words caught like butterflies in the pages of a book.

I remember
Going fishing with my father, listening to him teach the ways of nature.
I remember
Exploring musty bookshops with my mother, the closest we ever bonded
I remember
Wishing sometimes I had been born in her world, so I could have an attic room
Full of books
And a pony in the orchard and a proper school with chalk and exercise books.
But I remember
Oh, I remember
Being so young and free in the world that now it seems like a dream.

Red Pavilion

2005-08-15T01:16:00.000-07:00

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.

Endings are Beginnings

2005-08-14T21:33:00.000-07:00

I just got back from seeing my Grandmother today.

She's dieing, no way around that and I don't want her to take all those things from the past to her grave...she was glad to see us and she was very responsive and was able to talk a bit.

But she's not eating and she's only taking a little water.

Me and Doug and Esther acted as normal as possible and talked to her about the kids and what we've been doing and I could tell she liked that too. But I didn't harp on about the food...she doesn't have much time left I think and I didn't want to waste my time on that.

I had things to settle first.

When I got there, I went up to her first (she does look really bad ) and I looked right into her eyes and I told her about the good things from our past and that they meant a lot to me.

I told her not to be scared we were there and we didn't forget about her and never would and that we loved her and she said, " all my babies are here. "

Then she saw my brother and her face lit up like a Christmas tree and she said ' oh it's Duke! " that's my brother's nickname and both our Grandmothers adored Doug.

On his good days he's like one of those Douglas Fairbanks Jr types from the old movies...what do you call it...he's one of those dashing handsome lovable rogue types.

In fact, that's who my brother is named for: Douglas Fairbanks...only my Filipina Grandmother couldn't pronounce Fairbanks...it came out Frederick I guess or something that sounded like that.

So our mom changed it.

Anyway nothing could warm those two women's hearts like Doug could. It's always been a joy to me to think back on the smiles they had for him and only for him...my stern Grandmother Ignancia who only openly and with her entire heart smiled and laughed just for my Grandfather, Cypriano, and later for my brother Doug.

And for my Grandma Ginger who had a bitter and hard and sad life was able to toss all that over to smile with pure abandon for Doug too.

So it was worth going just to see her that happy...I mean it's the end for her and her life is full of bad choices and wrong words and she knows it.

If this can help her ease her heart and settle her spirit I'm glad and I'm glad I was there to see it and that I was part of it. I'm glad I was able to let go of my pain and hurt for the Grandmother who sometimes treated me with something less then kindness and care.

The nurse told Luis they're surprised she's lasted this long and they suspect she's got unresolved issues and I think we're the issues.

I really don't want her to suffer just waiting to see us.

I didn't want that to be what she felt on her last days on this Earth.

I wanted her to be happy tonight, I wanted her to have good dreams the way my Grandmother Ignancia did before she passed away.

My Grandmother was saying, the week before she died, that every night she was dreaming about my Grandfather Cypriano driving up in his army jeep and he'd call out to her to come out and take a ride with him.

She was scared when she woke up and told my Uncle she yelled at Cypriano to go away.

She died shortly after; I think she got in that jeep with him one night and I think she was laughing...I think they both were.

I want that for my Grandma Ginger too.

The Beginning-posted at the Soul Food Cafe

One of my favorite stories involving my Grandmother Ignancia and her sister involved the trips they use to take together back in their younger years after moving to Hawaii.

My Grandmother's younger sister really was a bush pilot and use to fly all over the Southwest here in the states, Mexico and before they stopped it, Cuba.

After one such trip my Grandmother and her sister weren't on speaking terms for about two weeks, I'm told. Finally one night at the dinner table my Grandmother's sister dissolved into hysterical laughter and nearly fell out of her chair. My Grandmother calmly got up, excused herself and went to Confession.

True story, one of my favorites because sometimes we forget our Grandmother's were once young women. When I think of my Grandmother and her sister ( We called her Tia ) I don't think of them as older maternal figures.

I see my Grandmother as the gutsy young woman she was; she left the Philippines to get away from an abusive husband as well as a Church she felt had far to much control over her life. She took herself and her daughter to Hawaii.

I see my Tia, which isn't hard to do because I look exactly like her. I can see her in my mind's eye flying planes, smoking her beloved Cuban cigars, playing cards and shooting coconuts out of the trees for the hell of it

I'd like to say my Grandmother was a calming sweet old woman, but she wasn't. She was tough, strong and independent. She wasn't the warmest person in the world, but my God you could count on her to be strong no matter what came her way.

Until the last week of her life she was working her garden and keeping up on her hobbies. As for Tia, she passed away a few months after my Grandmother did. I was told the day she lost her driver's license wasn't as big of a deal as the day she realized she could no longer fly ( which had happened many years before ). I think that broke her, because it was then she stopped being the spitfire she was before. I think all she had after being 'grounded' was my Grandmother and when she was gone...that was it.

Even as they aged they still traveled and saw much of the world, two old ladies taking off for trips to Mexico. Sometimes they'd see someplace on TV and decided to fly there for no other reason then...why not? It looked good. And just try to stop them. You'd have better luck trying to change the rotation of the Earth and I'm not kidding. This was when they were in the 70's for Pete's Sake.

HOWEVER! I think you all are very lucky to have had the women I've read some of you write about in your lives. The women in my life...well...ha, they belong in an adventure movie. No kidding and they'd take THAT as a compliment!

~Grandmothers~

2005-08-14T17:53:00.000-07:00

~Grandmother~
A young girl sits upon the bench, leaning slightly forward. Her cape is white wool and illumnated by the glow from the slowing burning fire. I smell oak and hear the hissing sound it makes as it warms the room. The girl of about thirteen removes her hood and it falls in soft folds around her shoulders. Her hair is cropped, all one length to just below her small ears - it is the color of burning flames. Freckles cover her soft complexion.

I know in a moment searching her eyes, the color of a lake on an ice blue winter morning, this is my Grandmother. I know from old photos, brown with time. Her hands are folded, held tightly together in her lap.

I don't know how to address her, this child girl who is my father's mother. I want to run and embrace her. I am afraid she will disappear once again into the flicking shadows on the wall behind her.

I watch as she gently takes my hand. The warm love flows through my body, which I miss deep in the recesses of my heart.

Words are necessary - our eyes meet. I ask her where she has been. I tell her how much I miss her. I tell her she was the constant in my life, you always knew she loved you. I thanked her for teaching me the art of sewing. For making my clothes long before I could sit at the treadle machine that belonged to her mother. Black, shiny shoes come to mind, as each Easter and Passover occurred. New ones always appeared upon my feet, along with white Buster Brown socks. I thank her for the summer trips I took, tooling in a color box, green rambler. How special they made me feel - just the two of us.

I know I am running out of time. She takes a small box from the pocket of cape. It's wrapped in white tissue and tied with a yellowing bow. I unwrap it carefully and find one black shoe, cracked with age. Tears are streaming down my face as I hold the shoe to my cheek.

She begins to speak - I came to you as that of a child of thirteen. The reasons are many, but most important is I want you to embrace your inner child. Acknowledge her presence. She needs you to accept her and all her mistakes. You can learn so much from her - who you were, who you are and where you might be going. She points to your future - the first step is acceptance. Listen to her whispers. Calm her fears and guide her into the woman she so longs to be.

I make this promise to an older woman who now sits on the bench. I give her a book, tied with twine. These are stories, my stories. Contained in the pages are the contents of my life.

Ms. Lovelace ( Patricia )

Posted by Picasa

Isle of Grandmother's

2005-08-14T16:50:00.000-07:00

I had let the others go to the Isle ahead of me, had deliberately lingered in the Tavern of the Inn, sharing a night cap with the old woman who ran the place. We talked about the group I had bought to Duwamish and she marvelled at their implicit trust. "You do have a gift child" she said as she poured me a smooth musket. I laughed out loud and cynically told her that I most certainly had a gift for waxing lyrical. She looked at me with knowing eyes and said that she thought I needed to take the trip to the island instead of sitting here by myself trying to avoid truth.

So I got up from the bar stool and as I rose I heard footsteps behind me. As I turned I gasped. There, right before me was Dad, looking just as he had looked when he last stood at my door with his basket of homegrown vegetables in his hand. I dropped my glass as I stepped forward to greet him and glass splintered across the floor. I hugged him and held him tightly for ages.

"Come Heather! I have come to take you to the ferry woman. My grandmother will take you across to the island."

"But Dad! Can't we spend some time together?" I pleaded.

"Shush little one" he smiled, putting his finger to his lips. "There will be time for that later, after you have been to the island."

With that my father led me to the quay to journey to the Isle of Ancestors, led me to the boat my great grandmother steered. It came as no surprise that her boat was shaped as, was in fact a black mare.

Dad gave me a leg up and my great grandmother and I rode bareback without speaking to the Isle of the Ancestors. I knew that she would be by my side while I completed the journey, that she would witness a rebirth. She smiled, nodded in agreement with my thoughts and led me through the moonlit apple orchard towards the stone doors, carved curiously in the shape of a vagina.

The doorway was open and we walked together down the labyrinthine passage way. Memories of Chartres Cathedral swarmed back. Memories of walking the labyrinth gripped me.

On we walked, my great grandmother and I, her warm hand guiding me until finally we entered a space that looked like it had been woven by a raven. A raven's nest? But then, as we circled and approached the hooded figures who were waiting for me, I realised that this was the womb I had lain in all those years ago. For a moment I thought I could hear my mother's voice, feel her movements, hear her feel the quickening as I moved. But then there was silence and I looked at the women who had gathered to greet them and gave them the raven feather I had had tucked in a pocket for protection.

As I sat tears welled and I began to sob in the arms of my great grandmother. The tears I shed were tears that I have resisted shedding. They came in torrents, flooding, drenching us.

"Why?" I blurted almost incoherently. "Why have I had to carry such a burden of grief and loss? Why can't I know unbridled joy?"

The women rose as a collective, revealing themselves to be my grandmothers, dating back centuries. I had never known one of them in my physical life yet I knew them to be my grandmothers. These women embraced me, as a collective and held me until I stopped crying. No one spoke. I felt their empathy, their knowing and I knew that they knew my agony of isolation.

It is a blur now but at some point I realised that they had wrapped me in a cloak of their collective knowing, that they were the cloak, that they had transformed themselves and were a part of me. My great grandmother, the Ferry Woman, sat me on a throne, wearing my specially woven coat.

Bells sounded, announcing that it was time to lead and my grandmother led me out of the throne womb, back up the labyrinthine passage, through the stone vulva and we rode on her mare back to Duwamish.

I held her warm hand briefly, pulled the collar of my new coat up to block the dawn chill and, singing with joy danced towards the inn. The Innkeeper told me the others had been down at the bathhouse and hadn't noticed my absence. So I slipped quietly to my room and slept, still wearing my coat, a coat that will always distinguish me and name me wounded healer.

The agony of isolation is over. Praise be!

Ursa Major

2005-08-14T16:13:00.000-07:00

I enter the great hall, one torch in my right hand, held high,illuminating my path. I sense that the chamber is round, and proceedcarefully clockwise, touching the wall occasionally with my lefthand for comfort. It seems to breathe into my hand, a sense ofancientness diffusing across the gradient into my skin, and I feelmyself rooting into the earth, even as I step lightly. I am becomingpart of this chamber, which I dimly recognize, by scent and sound, afaint pulsing that seems to come from within my own chest. I see afire, glowing embers with the remnants of small flames licking theair. Seated before the fire is a figure, draped in a magnificentrobe of many colors, some snaking through with a metallic gleam,some dull and homespun. The figure is large and powerful, and I seethat it faces not only the fire, but a crude bench which sits on theother side of the fire. I cautiously approach, feeling my way aroundthe cavern, and seat myself on the bench after placing my torch in agnarled tree trunk obviously meant for the purpose. I sit quietly,waiting.The figure in the robe stands, towering above the fire.Suddenly, the hood is thrown back and I behold a large bear, afemale. She stares at me, and I, humbled, bow my head. I recall thisbear from a dream I once had. She had stood beside my bed, through along and dark night of fear. Some time passed. Finally, I speak."Hello, Mother," I said. "I know you." She smiles,exposing strong teeth. Her eyes shine. In that instant I feel mythick pelt against the bench, hear the slight whisper of moth wingaround the torch, smell the ferry woman still at her post on theisland's shore. I feel stirring within me bear essence from timeimmemorial,feel my heavy paws running across mountain ridges,forested hills, and boggy riverbanks. I breathe, my breath harsh,fetid,powerful."Help me, Mother. What is my path?"She lumbers around the fire, coming quite close to me, and Ifeel the immensity of her body. I feel the longing to reunite withher, to suckle her rich milk, bury myself in her thick fur. I smellher essence, smell the same essence on my own pelt, my own skin. Iam of her. She places a powerful paw on my head. The weight ismassive, bowing my neck. I feel the subtle prick of her claws on mytender nape. The feeling is nearly indescribable, a rush of bearknowledge, bear instinct, bear lineage, all passing through me,flowing like lifeblood through my veins. I see my fur unravel,become fiber and cell and DNA and atom and subatomic particle, seeall of my matter swirl into the air and join with the universe,becoming tree, plant, river, stone, star. All paths are one, alllead to the self, all are bear. I gasp with recognition, the simplebeauty of it. In a powerful motion, she wrenches one long claw fromher great paw, and hands it to me, still dripping with her warmblood. I take it and hold it in my hands as though it were a livingcreature, tenderly cupping it.I sense her curiosity, her need. Once again she touches myhead, this time gently laying her bloody paw on my forehead. Bearsfill my vision, all female, all powerful; all dear, known, andbeloved. My sisters. They look to me, eyes searching, questioning."I will help them come to you, Mother. I will show themthe path."I reach into my pocket and pull from it a smooth stone. Jetblack and shiny, it lies in my hand like a glittering eye. It is astone from my homeplace, one I held throughout many sleeplessnights, working it over and over until the oils of my skin hadburnished it. It contains all of my hopes, dreams, fears, andintentions. I hold it out to her, my eyes barely meeting hers, myother hand clasping her powerful claw. She looks at my hand, and atmy face, with great tenderness, takes the stone, and swallowsit.She moves back to her seat, wraps herself in the robe, andappears to sleep. Pulling the lace from my boot, I wrap her claw andfashion a pendant, tying it round my neck. Anointed with her bloodand protected by her gift, I rise and make my way slowly from thecavern, walking fearlessly through the darkness to the shore. Mybear senses are keen and I sense millions of tiny presences in thedark, creatures moving below the earth, fish whispering below thesurface of the lake. The ferry woman appears concerned when she seesmy bloody face, but my calm,confident gaze stills her speech. I stepaboard the ferry and we start for Duwamish as dawn breaks over thewater. The wind is in my face, I smell the earth, the water.

All paths are one. I am Ursa Major.

Full to Overflowing

2005-08-14T15:07:00.000-07:00

[I apologize for the length of my post. My visit to the Isles was nothing short of miraculous. I could not contain it in a few brief paragraphs.]

This adventure has brought amazing sights, visitations, lessons, and joy beyond measure....and it's only just begun. What an exciting side trip the Enchantress has arranged for us...a visit to the Isle of Ancestors. As soon as I am told of the magical place, I am certain I know who is waiting for me to arrive. Not wanting to risk a tumble on these rocky lands, I asked the Hermit to prepare a horse for my journey to the river dock.

Midnight, the horse the Hermit so graciously allowed me to use, arrived at moonrise. She glissened in the evening light, even though her coat is pitch black. I stroked her soft mane, gave her a juicy apple, and asked her, if she please, to take me to the river dock. I was prepared to travel as fast as she felt was safe.

Midnight took off like a lightning bolt. Thankfully I had my digital camera bag firmly in my grip, but I did lose my hat. We sailed through the forest and over streams until the dock came into view. Midnight gradually slowed her pace and came to a stop at my dock mere minutes from the moment we took off from the Hermitage. What a ride! I caught my breath, stroked Midnight thankfully, and fed her another apple. I asked, if she wouldn't mind, if she would wait for me at the dock until my return. She neighed and nodded that she would.

My barge and Ferry Woman were waiting patiently for me. I gave Midnight another stroke and a kiss before boarding the barge. I sat on the barge soaking in the moonlight as a vain teenager soaks up the sun. I breathed in the cool, musky air in great anticipation. In a few deep breaths and a blink of an eye, my Ferry Woman had stopped at the Isle of Ancestors.

"Wow! I'm really here!" I thought. I disembarked the barge with great hesitance. I was thrilled to be on such magical lands and excited about meeting an ancestor. But...all of a sudden I felt my body pause. My feet stick firmly to the ground. I felt hair rising on the back of my neck. Fear? But why? I KNEW who would be waiting to see me and couldn't wait to see her. What was there to fear? Maybe it was just the chill of the night air, the anticipation, or the path that lie ahead of me with no guide.

I see a light shining on the path. Though quite dim, I can see far enough in front of me that I know I won't be walking into a tree with the next step. Plus, my walking stick helps feel for subtle dips or hills. I found the mound just as the Enchantress described. I paused before taking the path to the entrance. I took a deep breath and thanked the gods for whomever I would be visiting. I asked that my ears my be open to hear the message I needed to hear and that my memory would be as a sponge soaking in every moment so I wouldn't forget it. Though I had brought my digital camera, I knew I wouldn't be taking photos. I knew in my soul this was one of those moment that could never be captured electronically.

I swiftly made my way to the entry. The door exuded warmth, the glow and scent of a wood fire, and a sense of security and joy. Walking slowly so as to soak up every image, every scent, every vibration, I made my way to the hearth that was the source of the warming light. A hooded figure sat waiting, but did not move. The sacredness of the surroundings entered my pores and made me feel as if I had stepped into another dimension.

I walked to the other side of the hearth with my head bowed out of honor for the being wearing a monk's garb. I sat, without sound, on a stone bench, with my eyes cast down to the table. I waited for the entity to speak first, out of deep respect.

"Welcome! I have been anxious to meet you . . . even more so than you have to meet me. Look up, dear child, I want to see your beautiful face. I am certain of its beauty for I have seen your heart."

The voice I did not recognize. I knew immediately it wasn't the one I expected, though I wasn't disappointed. While I would have been thrilled to see Olive again, I knew this feminine being was here for a much deeper reason than reliving memories or telling me what it was like on the other side. I slowly raised my eyes and was astounded by beauty. The being who faced me was so much more than human and beyond any sense of beauty I'd ever experienced.

"There you are, my dear. I have known your heart for a very long time, but I've never had the chance to see your face. Such beauty and honesty reflect in your eyes."

"Thank you," I stammered as I tried to take in what was before me. I felt an odd sensation, almost like butterflies, flitting through me.

"I sure you are wondering who I am. Your soul knows and it is leaping for joy. Can you feel it?"

"Yes! I can! I wondered what that sensation was."

"Listen carefully, for your soul will whisper my name."

I tried to steady myself and focus inward. It was hard to pay attention to me with so much beauty and warmth and amazing detail surrounding me. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and heard, in a still, soft voice, "Mother Nature -- Goddess of all the Earth." I gasped in shock and lowered my eyes again. How could I be worthy of meeting Mother Nature herself?!

"Don't turn away your eyes, dear child. I know of your humble and deep respect for me. You do not have to show that now. Don't waste this time we have. Look into my eyes."

Again I slowly raised my head, still astonished by beauty. I looked into her eyes and felt relaxed and at home, as casual as if I were talking with a close friend.

"There you go. Now isn't that better?"

"Yes."

"Now, you've come to ask me something. What would you like to know?"

"As I'm sure you know, I have a hundred questions fighting within me to be chosen. There's so much I want to know about the amazing miracle of a world I live in. I guess the hows and whys aren't as important right now. What I most need to know is . . . what can I do to care for the amazing gifts you have bestowed upon us humans?"

"I knew you would choose that question, though I think you know it wasn't necessary for you to ask. You are such a gentle soul. Every time you have the opportunity to care for any of my creatures, you do it. I shed tears of compassion this afternoon when I saw you with the bunny who passed on. You did what you could to care for it and send it off on its journey on a ray of love.

"Maybe you asked the question because you need to be assured. This I can tell you with complete honesty -- you are a compassionate and loving woman. I know that you are doing everything within your power to care for creation. You know in your heart when you could be doing more, but those times are few. I also know that you are impatient. You want to see everyone caring as much for the planet and for others as you do. They will . . . some day. Know that it is by your actions that people will begin to see and will carry on the wave of compassion you send out to the world.

"Your heart is certainly aching to know what happened to the loving animals who have died in your presence recently. Tinker's spirit is within me and I can tell you that she's radiant with joy. She, like you, is very tender hearted. She welcomed the bunny on its arrival and took away its pain and fear. She knew the bunny, in its last moments, had captured your heart. She did for you what you could not do for the bunny. She held it, caressed it, and gave it the compassion you showed.

"Just like Tinker learning from and passing on your compassion, others will do the same. And just as you can never fully understand Tinker's feelings and actions, especially now that she has passed on, you will never know the feelings and actions of those who are touched by the ripple of your compassion."

Tears flowed down my cheeks as rain down a pane of glass. Some were tears of joy, as my body was filled with joy knowing that I was on the right path... knowing that I was doing everything I possibly could without even realizing... knowing that my actions were having some affect on someone, somewhere. A few tears were tears of loss, of knowing I would never see Tinker, my first puppy, ever again. I was so choked up I could not speak.

"Dear child, I know you are overflowing with emotion right now. It's ok. Drink it all in. I know this is an amazing moment for you. So that you never forget this moment, I have made something for you.

From your tears I have formed this ocean wave. May it forever remind you of the ripple affect your compassion has on the world."

I no longer have words to describe how I felt. My body vibrated joy in a way I had never felt before. I was so grateful for such a precious gift, and yet speechless. Without knowing what I would say, I opened my mouth and words tumbled out.

"Thank you for this gift. I will cherish it and let it remind me of you, your beauty, your radiant love, this moment, this feeling of joy, and, most especially, as a reminder never to give up . . . to always know that my actions have a life of their own. They ripple forth and I will never know who they will touch. I'm grateful to know this of my positive actions, yet I know this is also a reminder that my negative words, thoughts, and actions have a life of their own. I will try to control them as much as I can so that their ripples are few and their affect only on me."

"Yes, dear child, you speak the truth. I can assure you send out far more joy than sadness, but you are not perfect and can never be. But you can improve. My question for you today is if you feel you can try to focus on sending out good. If you can focus on the positive, the negative will become smaller. The positive will surround you."

"I am certain I can try. I know I can improve. In some areas, focusing on the positive comes easy for me. In others, I know that I settle in, in fact I almost wallow in the negative."

"Being aware of this is the key. Please use my gift as a reminder for you to dig out of the negative pit quickly. The longer you stay in the quick sand, the more it will suck you in and the bigger the ripples will become. To give you some hope, I can tell you that negative ripples move more slowly and travel shorter distances than joyous ripples in the same amount of time. You can turn around negative ripples and insure that they don't affect anyone but yourself. The key is to have a buffer of joyousness about you."

"Thank you for all you have shared with me. I will do my best to do what you have asked. As a token of appreciation, I want to give you something. I know you don't want my digital camera." I giggled out of nervousness. I searched my pockets and my heart. The only things I brought with me were my camera and my walking stick.

"I have a walking stick. It is of your own creation and is blessed by Wisdom. Is there anything you can do with this?" Mother Nature stretched out her hand and held my stick at a point just below the Wisdom carving. When she released the stick, the image of her face appeared where her hand had been. I felt the fine detail of the carving with my hand. How blessed I was to have thought to bring this simple stick with me. It would carry the gifts of the journey for me and protect me at every turn.

"Again, you have given me a most precious gift. I am indebted to you and will never forget your favor upon me. I am so overflowing with emotion and image and experience that I cannot think. I know I do not possess anything as priceless as the gifts you have given me. Is there anything I can give you?"

"You can give me a promise. I know you would agree to anything I say right now in your heightened state of joy. But listen and make sure you want to make this promise before you agree. I want you to promise that you will care for my creation by continuing to be the gentle, compassionate soul that you are, by elimination as much negativity from your life as you can, and by taking care of yourself -- just as precious a being in my creation as any other. You know that making time, making good choices, for yourself is harder than giving to others. It is the hardest thing you've had to do in your life. You have given up at times and put everything and everyone else first. Now, I'm asking you to promise you will give yourself what you need. I need you to live for a very long time so that your compassion can reach many generations."

I thought about the ways I harm myself, how I limit my life by my choices, how I don't spend enough time on things that would bring more joy into my life and others. I have been making better choices recently, but they've been hard. They've required a lot of time and attention. Could I promise to continue making better choices?

"Yes! I will make this promise. I do not take this lightly. I know I need to take better care of myself for my own sake. Knowing that it is also for the sake of the planet makes it all that more important. I will double my efforts to limit negativity and to treat myself the way I would care for a dear friend."

"Thank you, dear child. That's the best gift you could ever give me."

"I know that it is time for me to go. I enjoyed meeting you, Mother Nature. Allow me to soak in your radiance for one more minute, and then I will go."

I set the ocean wave on the table between us. Mother Nature place her hands on top of my own. As we held the crystal, it glowed as if in a fire. I could feel Mother Nature's waves wash through me. Her love, compassion, and creative energy fused into my being and into the glass momento. I bowed my head once more out of honor and respect and thankfulness, and then I took my leave. The glass wave continued to glow and light my path. I walked as if I was in a deep trace, gazing at the glowing glass. It led me to the barge where I was transported back across the river. The glowing wave in my hand was the brightest star in the sky. Midnight waited for me at the docks, and for this I was grateful. In my tranced state, I would have wandered for hours before making it back to the Hermitage. I mounted Midnight and, before I knew it, Midnight was cantering down the halls of the Hermitage. He nudged open the door of my room and took me to my bed. I slid off his back, put my precious gifts on the window sill, and fell into bed.

Ancestors and Apples

2005-08-14T09:15:00.000-07:00

The others have been shopping, or celebrating yesterday's triumph, or resting from it, while I've been standing nearly the whole day on the dock overlooking Duwamish Bay just opposite the Inn. From time to time one of my friends waves or calls out for me to join them but I shake my head and turn away. They probably think me unfriendly, I know, but I can't be with people right now.

I got very little sleep last night; my dreams gave me no rest. They weren't nightmares in the ordinary sense, no monsters chasing me, or fear of what lurked under the bed, no endless descent through a pitch black hole. But there was an empty field with a gate leading nowhere, and dark steps plummeting down to an angry sea. There was a shell on the windowsill in my cell at the Abbey that whispered and wept to be set free, and a green woven basket back in the grotto that shook and trembled at the fierce fluttering inside it.

I look up as the water of Duwamish Bay begins to froth and churn. A fleet of boats approaches the dock, flags fluttering in the soft summer night. I strain to find the one that will take me to the Island of Ancestors but they all look much the same in the dark. The traveller next to me chuckles and mutters something about worrying too much then confidently boards a ferry. How did she know? The flag on the one nearest me, appears to show shafts of wheat and baskets of corn, no clue there, perhaps it's a boat meant more for farm produce than for passengers. Then in the dull glow of running lights I read Trefoil and remember my shamrock suite at the grotto. As I come aboard, the ferry pilot nods a greeting then goes about the tricky business of extricating her boat from betwixt and between the other boats and in a few minutes we are plowing through the starry night toward our destination.

Twenty minutes later the faint outline of the island appears and despite the fact that there are no lights to guide her in, the ferry is soon safely tied up and I find myself walking toward the grove of trees the enchantress told us to find. Apples are in season and I pick some (Braeburns--my favorite) and throw all but one in my tote bag. I walk the moonlit path munching on the tangy juice-filled apple, while I try to quiet my rapidly beating heart.

The stones that lead into the mound are easily two stories high and as I pass through, heading toward the faint red glow, I feel the warmth of the torches and hear them sputter and spit in a passing breeze. The well-worn path leads me downward until I finally emerge into a great hall of shadows whose only light comes from a small fire in the center of the room. My ancestor sits by the fire, cloaked and hooded, facing in the opposite direction and with my heart already overflowing with love, I circle around and sit on the bench opposite.
"Hello Bev." My birthday twin-almost-sister from long ago lowers her hood and smiles at me and I forfeit the question about myself to ask, "Do you walk now, Dear Heart?"

"Not too often," she answers, her eyes shining, "mostly I dance!"

How I long to stay and talk with her but there are rules and reasons for this meeting and I've already broken the first. She draws something from her pocket and presents it to me. It's a cylindrical object four inches long in black and gold. She waits patiently, watching in amusement as I try to make sense of the riddle.

I turn the spyglass around in my hand in bewilderment, wishing I could ask why. Finally it comes to me. "Ah, to see in the distance, to study details--to focus on my stories," the words tumble out and she gives me a thumbs up sign. "You always gave the best presents," I admit. "Okay, Bev, your turn."

"Are you doing what you love?"

"Every day," I assure her. I reach into my tote for the apples and place them into her outstretched hands. We both watch as they flatten and lengthen and turn into the prettiest pair of ballet slippers either of us has ever seen.

Dawn is breaking as our fleet of ferries makes its way across Duwamish Bay. Looking back at the island through my spyglass, I can almost see a slender figure in red and gold slippers dancing among the apple trees.

Islands

2005-08-14T07:34:00.000-07:00

The Ferry Woman who took me to the Island had tattoos on both her arms, the patterns reminded me of the sun, but I think they were actually dieing worlds; worlds that I felt I should know.

She didn't face me, she didn't speak to me and I was glad for it. There was something ruthless and determined in the way she guided the barge across the Duwamish. She was fighting the tide all the way there and she was winning.

She brought us to shore and motioned for me to leave.

As I stepped from the barge to the Pier I saw she was pointing away into the darkness and I was able to see more tattoos on her arms, I saw trees etched into her skin and on the trees were little red apples that looked like splotches of blood.

I don't remember hearing the sound of the tide or the winds or of my own footsteps on this Island.

There was no air here.

" What is this place? " I asked and before she turned her head to answer I hopped off the barge and away from the pier. I realized I didn't want to see her face or hear her voice.

I felt I'd almost made a serious mistake and ran blindly up the path and away from the black waters behind me.

When I came to the cave with the torches out front, I took one down and carefully stepped into the darkness.

The figure waiting for me was wrapped in its death shroud. That didn't surprise me, that didn't bother me. What scared me was the fact that I knew who was under it and they wouldn't show me their face.

I could see the figure turn its head away from me, as if it didn't want me to look at it.

" Who are you? Show me your face " I said.

The hands lifted the shroud away from its face and it was my Aunt Sharon.

I could hardly recognize her because this was the face of my Aunt who should have who should have been.

The one I never got the chance to know.

It was not the face of a woman who died in hopelessness and despair. This was not the face of a woman who drowned all of her pain and torments in alcohol.

" I don't have much time, I'm afraid of the Ferry Woman, I think she wants to leave me here. "

My Aunt nodded and she smiled. Clever girl, the smile said, that's my girl.

" Did you mean it when you'd said Dreams never come true? " I asked, " Did you really believe that? "

" That wasn't me Anita, you know that. You've known that all along. And I don't believe it. I didn't believe it then either. Every time I saw your face and heard one of your stories I didn't believe it...I couldn't believe it. "

My Aunt motions me over and hands me a Tiger's Eye stone. " It's just for luck you know, to remind you I'm always watching you. That's all it is Anita, a token. The real token I'm giving you, that's inside of you now... in your heart. Remember that. "

" Do you forgive me? " she asks as she hands me the stone, " can you forget what I said, and can you let it go? What I said about dreams and hopes? Can you forgive me for saying that? "

" I miss you every single day Auntie, " I tell her, " and I'd never let one word or moment we had slip away into nothing. They're my memories and I love them all. Okay? "

She's smiling at me as she puts her shroud back over her head and I step forward and with a Mortician's Hands I wrap her again as gently and softly as I can. I adjust it over her shoulders and smooth it around her waist and hips.

That was my gift to her… my goodbye. The thing I couldn't give her before.

The ferry woman is waiting for me on her barge and for my Aunt as I step aboard I look it in the face and say, " take me home and don't screw with me. "

The ferry woman laughs soundlessly and as we sail back towards Duwamish we sail with the tide this time...with it.

Journey to the Island of Ancestors

2005-08-14T05:44:00.000-07:00

I stand on the quay, the barges lined up with a ferrywoman ready to greet her passenger. I am apprehensive about this journey, the journey itself and who I will meet on the Island of Ancestors, what they will ask of me and what answers I will come away with. I have my thoughts about who it is that I am to meet and what I will ask – I hope I am not disappointed.

The ferrywoman steps forward and beckons me to the barge. She is familiar – she could be my guide. “Yes” she says, “it is I.” The barge is lit by a single lantern and the moonlight. My guide senses my apprehension and encourages me to use my ipod and listen to some music if that will help.

The barge is enveloped in mist, I can no longer see the barges for my fellow travelers nor can I see Duwamish. Out of the mist the island emerges. The ferrywoman brings the barge to a stop at the shore; she then helps me to disembark. I ask her if she will be accompanying me and she replies “No you must go alone, for it is your journey.” She turns and tends to the barge.

I follow the moonlit path that winds its way through the grove of apple trees. Ahead is a mound, its doorway two massive stone uprights and lintel. It is lit by two torches burning brightly. As I approach I notice that it is a passageway. I enter and walk towards the faint red glow.

As I walk the passageway opens up to a large open area, with a hearth at its centre. It was the fire that provided the glow that had lit my path. Seated before the fire is a person in hooded robes – the person I am here to see.

I walked around the hearth and sat on the bench opposite this person. As I sat down, he removed the hood. It was Kirk (my cousin who died when I was 18) he was as I remembered him. I greeted him with tears streaming down my cheeks. He said “I know you have many questions, but I don’t want you to waste the opportunity, so I will tell you that all you ask after are at peace and waiting for you when it is your time to come.”

There were so many questions that I wanted answered, there were many that I know who had questions. He spoke again “It is your journey, you must ask for yourself and not for others.” So I asked “Why, why did this happen to us, our family, why me?” He responded “Everything and everyone has its time and its purpose. It is all predetermined and you will understand in the fullness of time.”
He then gave me a folded paper boat – “A token from me to help you weather those stormy seas.”

“Now it is my turn to ask a question of you, Megan. Why did you not come home?” I thought this may have been the question and have had more than a decade to think about my answer. “I didn’t come home because I was scared. I wanted to remember you the last time I saw you, before I went on holiday. I didn’t want to see you lying in a coffin. I wanted to remember you as you. And I have regretted the decision ever since; even more so since Brendan died. Please forgive me.” “It isn’t necessary, you need to forgive yourself. It was lesson you had to learn.”

I felt in my pocket for a tissue and there in its place was my rose quartz heart pendant. I gave it to Kirk with my love and my thanks. He hugged me and then returned to his bench covering his head again with the hood.

I rose and walked around the hearth and back up the passageway and out onto the path, surrounded by apple trees. I returned to the barge. I was helped aboard by the ferrywoman. She turned the barge and headed back into the mist. Duwamish emerged out of the mist; before I knew it the ferrywoman had secured the boat at the quay and waited to help me disembark once again. I thanked her.

I looked around the quay, some of the other barges had returned, others had yet to return. I walked back to the inn with my little paper boat in hand.

In the halls of my ancestors

2005-08-14T04:39:00.000-07:00

I found my ferry soon enough, “Dark Ferry Woman row me across the river, row slowly so that I may see the distance spaces, the edge where sunset meets the sea, the golden clouds that grace the summer sky. I want to feel the wind that pushes this small craft, this boat with rainbow sail that billows full and freely. As we reach the further shore I wave farewell and ask you to be ready at end of day to take me back to the pine covered mountain for I have been asked to report.

I wander slowly up the dock into the island centre where a great golden gate is lit by the rising sun, this gilded gate carved by the centuries of finest workmen opens before me and I find myself able to dance again, to carry the silver torch, to trip as lightly as I did in childhood up the long stairs, into the sacred hall. There is hope in my step and in my heart for this is the place of my own people, these are the hallways walked by all who walked before me through all time.

Here in a deep forest by a lake I find a small log cabin surrounded by a kitchen garden. October colour everywhere, deep crimson leaves fall from above and crunch beneath my feet. I knock. A soft voice calls, Is that you, my dear, I have been waiting here that we may talk.” The accent is familiar, just a hint of old East Anglia, the dialect my father knew and was forbidden to use. “ I met your dad long years ago, he passed by on his way to his own family shore. He was from Norfolk but not Norfolk born as I am for I am your mother’s people. Come tell me, why this quest for your time has not yet come although I see your aging as I watched your childhood.”

A thousand questions, questions, questions too personal it seems to ask this woman with the bright eyes that see into my mind. What made you grandmother-twice-back-and-more cross the great ocean to this place in deepest wood? Why bring your sons and leave a daughter at home? “So many why’s my dear.”

“Did you not move across an ocean? leave a son behind? stay in a country where the accent was not yours? We have much in common you and I. I crossed the sea for love, for a proper place for sons, for their father’s sake we built and grew. My daughter was well cared for, her father claimed the child. She would be safe, safer than a yeoman’s child and learned. “

“ My sons grew tall, broke their own land, and made their way no longer laboured in the fields of some descendant of King Williams thieving clan. I taught them well, my daughters too, those younger ones, and all the others too in the tiny school we built. Dear Dr. Strachan, dear old kirk where learning was allowed for all who came.”

“ Did you see our school house ? We had four rows of benches, a board my husband painted every September. The Bishop was generous; every child had his own slate, a bible and a first book. My pupils learned to read, and write, and, on the winter’s nights lit by fire and candle taught their parents too. When harvest came our sons, all of the sons, could count and claim all that was rightful, and give thanks for freedom and bounty.”

But all this does not reply, I see that one question too intimate to ask.”

“Why? I’ll try to answer. I was a gentle cousin in his lordship’s house, kin without status, a pretty girl I think. We touched, we loved, a child was born. I lost my place within propriety. The child was taken, I was given to wife to my yeoman. My great fortune, we brought four sturdy sons to the new country. You have his blood and thus most dear to me.”

“Now tell me”, she asked, what have you done, to make me proud?”
I thought for a moment and said that I had loved to learn and tried
to teach my students honestly.

“You have your answer. “she said, and laughing, “We’ll have a cup of tea, share stories of those children we have known, and fill the time until the ferry woman calls you home. Don’t be afraid for you will come again. We will be friends.”

I give my gift, a tiny book of poems as I wave farewell

Visiting the Isle of Ancestors

2005-08-14T01:03:00.000-07:00

The Central Mystery: The Journey to the Island of Ancestors

In this meditation, you will journey to meet an ancestor. Remember that an ancestor is a person from your past, who is no longer living, who has helped shape the person you are today; an ancestor may be a predecessor from your bloodline, a previous incarnation, a person who has given you a meaningful tradition or philosophical basis, such as an adopted relative, a teacher, a mentor. You will not choose who will appear to you and it may be someone you know or do not know. Now prepare for a journey. (Pause)

You stand on Duwamish quay. The night is clear; the waxing moon rises over your shoulder, and you hear the gentle rolling of water past the barges that are lined up in the Duwamish. Board the barge and you will be carried over the sea to the Island of Ancestors by a Ferry Woman. (Pause)

You see an island emerging before you. The ferry woman stops at the shore and you see a grove of apple trees. There is a moonlit path between the trees and you follow it. Ahead is a mound. In the centre of the side is a doorway made of two immense upright stones topped by a massive lintel. There are two torches burning at the door providing light for the entrance into a passageway. At the far end of the passage is a faint red glow. Proceed through a corridor inclining downward. (Pause)

You emerge into a shadowy great hall. In the centre is a hearth with the glowing embers of a fire. Seated before the fire facing away from you is a hooded figure. Across the hearth from this figure is a bench. You circle halfway around the hearth clockwise and sit facing the figure. This is one of your ancestors. Greet that person. (Pause)

You may now ask your ancestor one question. It may be about his/her contributions to your life or your family, it may be to clarify something about yourself, or about your future. (Pause) When you have finished, your ancestor gives you a token of help and guidance. (Pause)

In a fair exchange, your ancestor now asks you a question. Answer as best you can. (Pause) You find that you have a gift for your ancestor. Look at it and present it to your ancestor with thanks. (Pause)

Finish your circuit around the hearth, go behind the ancestor, and pass out of the mound and back along the path. (Pause)

Boarding the barge, you return to Duwamish as the first light of dawn breaks over the eastern horizon. At your own pace, return to the Duwamish Inn bringing your experiences and token with you.

The Enchantress