tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154111242024-03-09T05:24:19.707-08:00Isle of Ancestors<IMG SRC="http://pic2.picturetrail.com/VOL1017/4092147/8949293/127499869.jpg" border="0" alt="Image Hosting by PictureTrail.com">
The Isle of Ancestors is one of the most mysterious, revered destinations on the Silk Road. Travellers who come here are deeply touched by their experience.Heather Blakeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16569556563400820006noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1146485634156036312006-05-01T05:13:00.000-07:002006-05-01T05:13:54.156-07:00Gaia Welcomes Leonie Home<div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://pic2.picturetrail.com/VOL1017/4092147/9633410/143478546.jpg" alt="Image Hosting by PictureTrail.com" border="0" /><br /><br /><blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;">Her daughter returns home.<br />with love<br />Heather Blakey<br /> </span></blockquote><br /><br /></div>Heather Blakeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16569556563400820006noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1146455041959152522006-04-30T20:42:00.000-07:002006-04-30T20:46:18.476-07:00Bringing Leonie Home<div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://pic2.picturetrail.com/VOL1017/4092147/9633410/138945046.jpg" alt="Image Hosting by PictureTrail.com" border="0" /><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;">le Enchanteur and Leonie Bryant's spirit bird taking her home to sleep in the Bower of Bliss</span></blockquote><br /></div>Heather Blakeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16569556563400820006noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1145535957813319732006-04-20T05:24:00.000-07:002006-04-20T05:25:57.826-07:00Pioneers who went before usEmigrants<br /><br /><br />Old men plough while sons grow cold<br />under the mountain<br /><br />Prairie wheat fields murmuring golden and rich in the days <br /> before harvest <br />the smell of grass—long hay newly mown dry crunching<br /> under our running<br />We counted our days in puffs of old-man dandelions knew our <br /> distances in the long rows of telephone poles.<br /><br />At the base of the poles We put our ears to wood that trembled <br /> messages of the great world <br />wind on our shoulders, telling, listening, and we knew that the time of our leaving would be soon. <br /><br />The winds of migration were everywhere—in the v-line of ducks<br /> and the wide sweep of Canada geese <br />We heard at dusk the calling and in the morning packed,<br />our bags growing fat with things we could not leave, memories of a hundred days of <br /> our mothersFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1139622578089698722006-02-10T17:38:00.000-08:002006-02-10T17:49:38.116-08:00Grandpa<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3495/1058/1600/Father.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3495/1058/400/Father.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:verdana;">Must have been back there somewhere,</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">don't you think?<br /></span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1139162925863481142006-02-05T10:03:00.000-08:002006-02-05T10:08:45.880-08:00A Card from Dad<strong>A Card from Dad<br /></strong><br />The other day<br />while searching<br />for something unrelated,<br />I stopped to look at pictures<br />made so long ago,<br />and there I found,<br />a postcard from Dad.<br /><br />Among long forgotten images<br />of Mum and Dad,<br />and me<br />when I was small,<br />eight as I recall,<br />was<br />a sepia picture postcard<br />from Dad.<br />On the front,<br />a picture of<br />the First and Last House<br />on that glorious British Isle.<br /><br />On the back,<br />the writing faded,<br />was the message.<br /><em>Dear Vi</em>, it read,<br /><em>I’m sending this inside Mum’s letter<br />because I do not want it spoiled.<br />Keep it for a souvenir of me,<br />Love, Dad.<br /></em><br />Seeing,<br />holding,<br />and reading its message now<br />after so many years have passed,<br />means more to me, I think,<br />than it did<br />when I was eight.<br /><br />My Dad … he was my pal,<br />and though he never said<br />he loved me,<br />never hugged me,<br />I knew I was his buddy,<br />but was I not his daughter, too?<br /><br />Those simple words<br />across the years<br />tell me that,<br />despite his silence,<br />he loved this child,<br />but couldn’t voice the words<br />that would have meant so much.<br /><br />Two years later<br />and far too young,<br />he was taken, <br />ravaged by<br />the cancer that took his mind<br />and made him crazy.<br /><br />Now that I am old,<br />his words are strong<br />and clear.<br />I <em>am</em> his daughter,<br />always was—<br />Love from Dad<br /><br />Vi Jones<br />©February 5, 2006Vi Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17349699632804309385noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1138877125018973772006-02-02T02:44:00.000-08:002006-02-02T02:45:25.050-08:00Of Ancestors<span style="font-family:verdana;">Lost in tomorrow<br />is the song of yesterbeen,<br />when I will foretell<br />of what I forgot to be<br />when I get another chance.<br /><br />For I am right now<br />what I have always known,<br />but have been taught to believe instead;<br />and my father's father back unfold<br />must laugh at what could said.<br /><br />For hist'ry retold<br />is as smoke unto the fire,<br />and ashes are nothing<br />compared with the warmth once shared<br />when I was taught to sing.<br /><br />Look then to the mists,<br />my daughter, my love, my son;<br />for the songs we sing and joyful dance<br />still live in the soul's timeless view,<br />when all the words are gone.<br /> </span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1138765163039386332006-01-31T19:34:00.000-08:002006-01-31T19:39:23.066-08:00The End<div align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4991/82/1600/page%2021%20the%20end.0.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4991/82/320/page%2021%20the%20end.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center">For those that have gone before me.</div><div align="center">Kavyn Brian Warren</div><div align="center">31/01/2002</div><br />This gluebook was created using the prompt: last end final.<br /></div>Megan Warrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13897970281459038195noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1138717821331462632006-01-31T06:25:00.000-08:002006-01-31T06:32:29.046-08:00An Ancestor Be<span style="font-family:verdana;">Regardless of your ability</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">to embrace the presence and influence</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">of ancestors, it is easy to acknowledge a debt</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">to 'what has come before' -- personally</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">and as a culture.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">One might muse then,</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">on what kind of ancestor you will be --</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">what footsteps left on the sands,</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">what handholds etched</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">on craggy cliffs --</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">that might help children</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">find their way.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">consider ...</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;">REVOLVING<br /><br />For those who drift only partly awakened,<br />I can be there --<br />need only be there --<br />be there --<br />be.<br />This is the finest of attentions --<br />to … be the hidden handmaiden of dreams,<br />to … guide in silence,<br />to … conduct a symphony of hopes,<br />to … gather discarded prayers into a basket of fairywind.<br />Hush -- hush, for though they slumber<br />by choice and Current blend --<br />someday they will remember,<br />and search your cheek<br />for tears of joy.</span></div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1138714552623563662006-01-31T05:35:00.000-08:002006-01-31T05:35:52.643-08:00Ancient View<span style="font-family:verdana;">In Mongolian Shamanism mythos,<br />the touch and relevance of ancestors<br />was embraced in several special ways.<br /><br />It was believed that each person had seven souls;<br />some assigned (destined) to various dominions<br />as a return of spirit to source,<br />but others whose function was influenced<br />by the family that remained.<br /><br />All souls spend a time in the 'Lower Kingdom'<br />from which they could sometimes be 'saved',<br />usually by the interaction of a Shaman.<br />This embraced conditions of coma<br />and near death experience. In both, the family<br />had to desire and petition for the return.<br /><br />One soul hovered near the family home (camp)<br />in order to provide council and assuage grief.<br />Often people 'Heard' the voice of this spirit<br />as if they were still alive. Eventually this influence<br />diminished. However, the family by group will<br />or ritual could install this 'soul' in an object<br />near the home for eternity -- usually a favored<br />tree or rock, from which it's presence would be<br />known by future generations.<br /><br />One soul went to the Upper Kingdom (Tengri),<br />To provide a communication link with the<br />demi-gods of the weather. People did not pray<br />to the Tengri itself, but to their ancestors there.<br /><br />NOTE: none of this was considered 'religious' --<br />The other four souls returned to Source<br />Completely outside and distinct from the<br />Known and imagined worlds of the Three Kingdoms<br />(seven thousand years before the 'Rings'). While there<br />was no possible communication with these souls,<br />it was felt that the way a person lived their life<br />had an influence on how these souls behaved<br />in the shaping of the universe. These four 'aspects'<br />of being roughly can be equated with,<br />Mind, Soul, Heart and Spirit with which you<br />Might be more familiar.<br /><br />Thus any ancestor might have influence on future<br />generations in a myriad of complex ways -- all revered.</span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1138675343805825882006-01-30T17:57:00.000-08:002006-01-30T18:49:37.413-08:00Organised Disorganisation - Sepia Ancestors<div align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5636/1294/1600/DSCF0517.0.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5636/1294/400/DSCF0517.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color:#663300;">The way to the Isle of Ancestors was laid out before</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">me, in a way that I could follow, but knew</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">not where it would lead. None of it made sense,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">over the water to the isle, in another time,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">another place. I was robed in red, safe</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">and protected, purposeful and expectant.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">When I reached the guide she said nothing,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">unusually quiet. I glanced in question, not</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">knowing why I was here -- none of the thoughts</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">I had found answers in the mist that smelled</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">of ancient incense and sounded like a sea of small</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">bells. I felt a discontent, a sense of needless hardship</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">inside, a heaviness that mildly aggravated.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">"Long ago," came a voice, "This was how it was."</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">A guide pointed to a patch of ground, stubbornly held</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">by womenfolk in dark clothing, proud but worn by it.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">At first I didn't understand. "They are so sombre,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">clothed in dark up to their necks, yet handsome and </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">intelligent..." And they seemed to have something to</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">say, as the guide indicated toward them again.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">"You want colours," they said. "Yes," I said, facing</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">them with respect and kindness.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">"Well it's no good asking us. We come from long ago and </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">far away. We don't remember when the sea was alive</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">with the sound of small bells."</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">Confused, I sat on a mound of simple earth, bare of</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">life and song. I saw them, bound as they were in manner,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">as surely as if they had been tied up by an absent</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">captor. Inside me there was a vague sense of aggravation.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">"Why did you come here? You know we are set in our</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">ways, as surely as if we were made of stone."</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">"I thought to..." I said, part of me knowing it was unnecessary</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">to go on.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">As I spoke with them, clear as a bell, some curled up and went</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">to sleep in their dark robes, a deep and peaceful slumber.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">"Our time was lived. We were made for the dark. We were</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">made that way..." the elder said. In a corner of her</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">eyes there was a tear that sparkled like a diamond. A hint</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">of the bell sea? I thought.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">"Be at peace," I said aloud, "I have nothing to admonish you with...you are the</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">foundation that was. I accept you. I accept your strengths as</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">part of the whole, and bid you rest now."</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">"Well and good," said the elder, proud and regal looking, her</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">hair tied back in an ancient design, dark and lovely. "Then</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">we, no I, shall give you something, something from us..."</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">I looked down to see an ancient sepia dragon sitting serenely</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">in my lap, important against my red robe.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">"I feared you would not..." I said, looking from the ancient art</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">back to my elder, whose regal countenance had always </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">made my sentences fall away.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">"Understand? We know the patterns of the earth, and we were</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">one of them. Each pattern is different, and we lived our pattern. Now</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">you may add the colour that we need, in your own pattern."</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">I smiled then, finally understanding the disorganisation of</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">organisation. The thread lingered, yet was forever separate,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">forever joined, but different. It was meant to be different. This</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">was the truth of the elders, to whom I had sworn absolute loyalty.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">My elder opened her robe a little, and beneath the dark was</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">a range of colour, that had always been there, yet was always</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">obscured. I was moved by the sight. "<em>You knew it was there</em>," I</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">said.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">"<em>Always</em>," she said, "Yet <em>not</em>, if you understand me."</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">Expecting her to sleep, like the others, in their calm state,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">like wind-formed rocks that seem to lean of a need for the earth,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">and the grateful peace of support. </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">"You would want to rest now, too," I said, rolling the ancient art into</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">a scroll to take with me, and rising from the mound of earth.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">"Not yet," she said, with a slight smile. "I am your guardian, as </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">strong as any you will find. My name is as you know it, and </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">will always be..."</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">The heaviness lifted from inside me, and I knew it was impossible,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">and unnecessary, she would think, to thank her. She had always</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">done as was expected, and knew the hard roads. I told her I was glad she</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">was here, glad she was there to watch that I would remain, </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">forever the same, yet forever different. She said that</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;">was the way of the ancestors.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#cc0000;">copyright Monika Roleff 2006.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#663300;"></span></div>Imogen Cresthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08548786970743207630noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1138621704758752772006-01-30T03:46:00.000-08:002006-01-30T04:12:34.383-08:00Soul Sisters on Isle of Ancestors<div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://pic2.picturetrail.com/VOL1017/4092147/8949293/127692688.jpg" alt="Image Hosting by PictureTrail.com" border="0" /><br /><br /><blockquote><span style="font-size:100%;">Heather and Sibyl acknowledge<br />that they are one<br />are companions<br />who<br />have walked this way<br />before</span></blockquote><br /></div>Heather Blakeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16569556563400820006noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1138579685831092672006-01-29T16:05:00.000-08:002006-01-29T16:08:05.866-08:00For All My Ancestors<div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://pic2.picturetrail.com/VOL1017/4092147/8949293/127626123.jpg" border="0" alt="Image Hosting by PictureTrail.com" /><br /><blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;">Forever entwined<br />we will always<br />be as one</span></blockquote><br /></div>Heather Blakeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16569556563400820006noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1138522338716931982006-01-29T00:04:00.000-08:002006-01-29T00:19:34.776-08:00Chinese New Year Visit - Spirit Quilts<div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://pic2.picturetrail.com/VOL1017/4092147/8949293/127499369.jpg" alt="Image Hosting by PictureTrail.com" border="0" /><br /></div><br />During your visit to the Isle of Ancestors, as a part of Chinese New Year 2006, take the time to make a spirit quilt <a href="http://www.africanamericanartquilt.com/montgomery.htm">like one of these</a> by Patricia Montgomery. Don't feel compelled to make your spirit quilt from fabric.<br /><br />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.<a href="http://softexpressions.com/software/books/AAndersoALL.htm"><br /></a><br />The possibilities are endless.Heather Blakeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16569556563400820006noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1135411487433081162005-12-24T00:03:00.000-08:002005-12-24T00:04:47.450-08:00Ancestoral visitI come to the island<br />tonight to remember<br />blood that runs in my blood<br />all those whose footsteps marked their passing<br />sailors who travelled far<br />and brought their stories<br />teachers who told the tale<br />babes who listened cuddled safe in strong arms<br />young wives who became grandmothers<br />grandmothers whose young lives<br />were cut short<br />for tonight the pibroch rings through the mountains<br />and in far away places<br />young lovers dance once more<br />to the mellow tones<br />of a saxophone<br />and the children's piping voices<br />remind me that I too was young<br />onceFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10326889003711014622noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1132481342383109222005-11-20T02:07:00.000-08:002005-11-20T02:09:02.400-08:00visit to the Isle of Ancestors on All Souls NightI 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.<br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Many years later my mother gave me his wedding ring and grandma’s.<br />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 .....Viridianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05667174122262547045noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1130844905521158092005-11-01T03:33:00.000-08:002005-11-01T13:29:47.530-08:00Spirit Servant Maintains A Vigilant Watch<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.picturetrail.com/gallery/view?p=10&imgid=117230818" title="Free Image Hosting at www.picturetrail.com"><img src="http://pic2.picturetrail.com/VOL1017/4092147/8520100/117230818.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><blockquote> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The Serpent Queen gives le Enchanteur the greatest gift of all. She reunites her with her Spirit Servant who will willingly do her bidding.</span></div> </blockquote> <div style="text-align: center;"></div>Heather Blakeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16569556563400820006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1130816816764535322005-10-31T21:47:00.000-08:002005-10-31T19:47:53.670-08:00Catching Up With My BrotherI 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.<br /><br />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. ;-)<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/730/1394/1600/me_nows2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/730/1394/320/me_nows2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a> 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."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"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!"<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />"I think I can see it...at least a little, just by your description."<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />"I will listen. I will try to hear you. I'll do my best."<br /><br />"And that's all you can do."<br /><br />"I love you."<br /><br />"I know you do."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1130738637883184902005-10-30T22:03:00.000-08:002005-10-30T22:17:43.196-08:00The Bonnet<span style="font-family:arial;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">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. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">EPC</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /></span> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;font-size:180%;" >The Bonnet</span><br /> <br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">I walked her home</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">For I was young and strong</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">And I felt good for giving</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">My arm to one that shook with age</span><br /> <br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">She sat in the sturdy rocking chair </span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">That her husband had made</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">With just a knife</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">For they had no nails</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">And told me of “The Crossing”</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">And I felt good for giving</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">A minute of my youth and streaming life</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">To listen</span><br /> <br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">She showed me the bonnet</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">Lovely still, though out of style</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">And told me how she had carried it</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">Through the dirt and the rain</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">And I looked</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">And wondered about giving</span><br /> <br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">She wove me a wealth of wisdom </span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">While I sat at her feet</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">In my first understanding of life</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">With aging silk and satin</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">A treasure of trust in her shaking hands</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">The beauty she would not leave behind</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">Still mirrored in her soft old eyes</span><br /> <br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">She taught me the truth of tomorrow</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">Living means giving in age or youth</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">Knowledge and beauty are seeds of hope</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">And dreams are the birth of truth</span><br /> <br /> <br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic;">~ Edwina Peterson Cross ~</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">For My Great-grandmother - Karen Marie Nilson Jenson</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">My Grandmother - Melinda Caroline Nelson Benson</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">And My Mother - Zetta Benson Peterson</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1130738723780474452005-10-30T22:04:00.000-08:002005-10-30T22:16:24.536-08:00Grandpa<span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">My earth memories</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">Are vague</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">In soft distorted pieces</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">A child’s telescoped thoughts</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">That bring me small scattered pictures</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">Of an old, old man</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">My few childhood recollections</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">Are fuzzy far off images</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">Of white hair</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">And faltering steps</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">But, these broken fragments are not the reality I hold of you</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">I have found the clear, clean truth of you</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">Preserved and honored in so many different thoughts</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">I have heard the whsipers of your gentle words</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">For they echo in my mother’s heart</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">I have felt your peace</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">Still flowing strong through the house you made a home</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">I was taught the power of learning</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">By the woman you loved</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">I learned the power of love</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">From the daughter you taught</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">I feel your legacy</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">When my throat closes with emotion</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">When my heart swells with joy</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">I feel your touch in my blood</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">As I realize in awe</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">The sweet strength of tenderness</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">The powerful promise of love</span><br /> <br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">And today</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">In the still silver hush of dawn</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">I sense a soft warm wind that gently lifts the corners of the veil</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">I feel hymns of love wash over me like a blessing</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">And I listen</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;">For your voice</span><br /> <br /> <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-family:arial;">~ Edwina Peterson Cross ~ </span><br /> <br /> <span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">For My Grandfather, Serge Ballif Benson</span> </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1130738864164008252005-10-30T22:07:00.000-08:002005-10-30T22:14:31.710-08:00All Souls Night on The Isle of the AncestorsTonight 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.<br /><br />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.<br />She smiled and answered, “fishing.”<br /><br />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.”<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >I Learned</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They would ask me . . .</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">How long have you been dancing?</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When did you begin to learn?</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Were you four?</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Five?</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Who did you learn from?</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">What lessons did you take?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I danced</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I said . . .</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Before I drew my first breath</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For my dancing soul learned joy</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Before my mortal body was complete</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I danced</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I said . . .</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">From the beginning</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I learned</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I said . . .</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">From the heart that beat around me then</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A halcyon heart full of sunshine and peace</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">In the safety of the dark and warm</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I first felt the promise of a world of love</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And I danced . . .</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For joy</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">~ Edwina Peterson Cross ~</span><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/164/3704/640/I%20Learned.jpg"><img border="0" style="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/164/3704/400/I%20Learned.jpg" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1130738796942212872005-10-30T22:05:00.000-08:002005-10-30T22:06:36.943-08:00The Fisherman's Daughter<span style="font-family:arial;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/164/3704/640/Daddy%20Fishing.jpg"><img border="0" style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 2px;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/img/164/3704/400/Daddy%20Fishing.jpg" /></a><br /><br />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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">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?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Edwina Peterson Cross</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">October 27, 2004<br /><br /><br /></span><br />I painted my Daddy, Dr. Edwin L. Peterson, on top of one of his own oil paintings<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/164/3704/640/Daddy-5X7.0.jpg"><img border="0" style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0); margin: 2px;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/164/3704/400/Daddy-5X7.0.jpg" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1130671305789834982005-10-30T03:21:00.000-08:002005-10-30T03:21:46.376-08:00All Soul's Night Greetings for all my Ancestors<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.picturetrail.com/gallery/view?p=10&imgid=116810128" title="Free Image Hosting at www.picturetrail.com"><img src="http://pic2.picturetrail.com/VOL1017/4092147/8520100/116810128.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;">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.</span></blockquote><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /></div>Heather Blakeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16569556563400820006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1130136436308293182005-10-23T23:37:00.000-07:002005-10-24T00:10:05.130-07:00Return to the isle of the Ancestors<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4149/463/1600/hilda2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4149/463/320/hilda2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I have come again to the Isle of Ancestors, for recent events have made it imperative that I do so.<br /><br />My ferrywoman, the strong and capable Maeve, rows me across the bay. She senses a change in me.<br /><br />``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?”<br /><br />``Yes,” I said. ``And there is something I have to know.”<br /><br />``I hope the island can provide the answer for you.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />But it was not my mother – it was my grandmother Hilda, whom I had never met in life.<br /><br />``I knew,” I said. ``I knew you would be here.”<br /><br />``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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />``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?”<br /><br />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.”<br /><br />The gift we gave each other was something precious beyond price – a first and only embrace – until we meet again.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1130086763280958312005-10-23T09:54:00.000-07:002005-10-23T10:00:24.836-07:00My collection<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/eternallyluna/55225730/" title="Photo Sharing"><img src="http://static.flickr.com/24/55225730_4286142a69.jpg" width="400" height="253" alt="mycollection400.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Tokashiki Island, Japan<br /><br />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.Lunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16216635484456920052noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15411124.post-1124006678580584972005-08-14T01:03:00.000-07:002005-10-22T06:21:30.593-07:00Visiting the Isle of AncestorsThe Central Mystery: The Journey to the Island of Ancestors<br /><br />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)<br /><br />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)<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://pic2.picturetrail.com/VOL1017/4092147/8520100/115890204.jpg" /><br /></div><br />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)<br /><br />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)<br /><br />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)<br /><br />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)<br /><br />Finish your circuit around the hearth, go behind the ancestor, and pass out of the mound and back along the path. (Pause)<br /><br />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.<br /><br />The EnchantressHeather Blakeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16569556563400820006noreply@blogger.com2