Cher-lynn

“Is it true that you do not wish me to speak?”

“Nay, little one. I expect you to speak –
tell me of the awe and wonder you see,
that I might have missed. Use me
as a sounding board for your musings –
just don’t prattle to move the air around,
or pass on the latest gossip.”

“I understand, papa – and am pleased.
It is difficult to talk with most people
since I don’t watch TV,
or idle sports,
or shop;
but …”

I waited a bit before giving a nod,
giving honor to the ‘but’ as a request,
not a human ploy saying,
“ignore what I just said,
here is the real concern –
the stuff you didn’t ask for.”

Instead, I whistled low –
signaling her to my side
lest we disturb a tremulous faun
approaching a pool for its first drink;
or the pool’s first prayerful offering,
one.

“Please tell me what you feel, right now,”
whispered self to me and Cher-lynn near.”

and we had much to talk about –
and I learned that donkeys
can listen and speak at the same time,
unlike people,
and that she likes to be
scritched behind the ears.

“Look there,” she giggled.
“Someone left a moonbeam
beneath that gnarled tree …”

On the Road Again…

I was standing on the other side of the door, feeling completely naked with nothing to grumble about. It was all in the surrender box.

But I did feel a lot lighter and ready for adventure. I rummaged around in my bag, through all the things I had thought I would never see again from my last Lemurian journey, and my hand closed around the small packet wrapped in leaves and tied with string, that Le Enchanteur had given me. My mystery gift…

It felt strange, so I unwrapped it and an old clay pipe fell out. There was no tobacco in this pipe – never had been, by the look of it – but someone had drilled holes all along the stem.
I put the pipe to my lips and blew a tentative note. A bright cheery tune came out, mellowed by the bowl of the pipe.

I started walking along the serpentine rod, which was disappearing into the distance in a very serpentine way. No doubt I was too late for a donkey – letting go of my skin with its comfortable crust of grumbles had taken some time. But no – as I rounded the bend, I saw a large donkey cropping thistles by the road.

It wasn’t Christabel, my first Lemurian donkey. She has gone on in search of glittering academic prizes, so I hear. This donkey was grey and oatmeal in colour, with a large knobby head. He was wearing a tam o’shanter with holes for his ears to stick through.

Reminding myself that Lemurian donkeys are not your common or garden variety, I introduced myself.

“Hamish,” he said briefly, through a mouthful of thistle. “Ye’re late.”

“I know, I usually am,” I apologized.

“Aye, so I heard. Well, get on then, we’d best be off.” He swung his rump around so I could clamber on board.

“Where are we going?” I asked as we set off down the road at a leisurely amble – late or not, Hamish seemed in no hurry, pausing now and then to snatch another thistle.

“that’s up to you,” he said. “I’m no fashed where we go.”

I took out the clay pipe and started to play again. The merry little tune turned into a hornpipe, and I smelled the tang of the sea on the breeze. Freed of my petty little worry worms, I breathed it in deeply and felt a longing for something fun, adventurous and completely unplanned.

“Let’s go to sea!” I said.

Hamish cocked an ear at me. “No the noo,” he said. “There’s pirates about, ye ken.”
I clamped my teeth down on my pipe, and narrowed my eyes against the glare of the sun.

“Pirates?” I said. “Sounds – interesting.”

Hamish heaved a sigh and left the serpentine road, followed a rocky track down to the sea.

“I can see,” he said over his shoulder, “that you’re going tae cause me quite a bit o’ trouble, aye.”

Sorry I’m Late

I’m sorry for the delay folks. As I came through the gate and found my donkey the glint of sunlight off the nearby lake caught my attention. I just couldn’t help myself; I had to check it out. As I came down the grassy knoll to the shore the blue of the water took my breath away. Sunlight sparkled off the surface casting a prism of color at my feet. I felt a deep stillness in my soul. I commented to Agnes (my donkey companion), I sure wish I brought my fishing gear this looks like a little piece of heaven to me!”

Agnes said, “Okay.”

And there by my side was a tackle box and a nice Shakespeare casting outfit. It was just too tempting for me…I do love to fish. I told Agnes, “I’ll just make a cast or two and we’ll be on out way.”

Agnes said, “Yeah, sure you will.”

Well, that was four days ago. On my first cast, my line was hit like I had hooked a whale. Why didn’t somebody warn me that Moby Dick was lurking about? Now the way things usually work is that the one doing the casting is the one doing the catching but that’s not the way things happen here! The next thing I knew I was being pulled into the lake. Iknow. Iknow, you want to know why I didn’t just let go of the rod, right? All I can say is old habits die hard. That was one primo fishing set up. I priced one last year and put it on my things to buy when I get rich list. I wasn’t just about to let go of it, not without a fight.

I started trying to pull back but my feet kept slipping. When I was in the water up to my knees I came up against a rock and I held my own for a few minutes. That rod was bent almost in half and I thought…Shit it’s going to break. Then all of a sudden the line went slack and I fell back into the water. Before I could get my feet under me, I was pulled out into the lake like a skier on a towrope.

At first I panicked. My lungs were burning…I needed air! Then I heard the most beautiful music. It was Pachelbel’s Cannon in D. I finally let go of that rod and started kicking for the surface, at least I thought I was kicking for the surface. I didn’t know which way was up. Then I heard a voice. At first it was just a whisper, “Let go.” Then it became a little louder. “Let Go.” I didn’t know what it meant. I had already let go of the rod. Then it came like a shout, “LET GO OF YOUR FEAR!” I was still confused. I left my fear in the surrender box. I was drowning. For me, the world went black.

When I came to I was in a bubble with Mermaids all around me. I heard the music again. It was the most beautiful music I have ever heard. It was as if all the symphonies that ever existed were playing at once. Instead of being overwhelming the notes blended perfectly and made a new symphony that was greater than anything that had ever come before. Then the music stilled and everyone turned to look at me. I felt self-conscious. I didn’t know what to do or say. As one their voices rang out. “Will you let go of your fear?” It came to me not as words spoken but as a choir of voices in perfect harmony.

“I left my fear in the surrender box, ” I said.

“Not all of it,” came their song.

“WILL YOU LET GO OF YOUR FEAR?” Came the chorus.

“Yes, I will let go of my fear!” I said.

With one voice they sang a note that would make Pavarotti proud and my bubble burst. I kept my eyes on the Mermaid in front of me. She reached out her hand and I took it. Without thinking about it, I was breathing. I was BREATHING! Do you know how cool it is to be able to breathe under water? I smiled and said, “My name is Melody.” The Mermaid who took my hand smiled and said, “We know. My name is Metasea. Welcome.”

They took me to their home in the lake and that’s where I’ve been for the last few days. I was having so much fun with them it was hard for me to take my leave. I knew I had to go however and catch up with the rest of you. I pulled Metasea aside and told her I needed to continue my journey . My last night there the Mermaids threw a big party for me giving me gifts to remember them by. Metasea took me back to the shore but before she left she gave me a magic whistle. She told me if I ever wanted to visit no matter where I was or which body of water I was in all I had to do was blow the magic whistle and someone would come for me.

I climbed out onto the shore. There stood Agnes. I’m rushing to catch up.

The long and winding road (sorry Paul)

Let me sit a moment
let me think.

What I gave at the gate
my “don’ts”, “can’ts” and “nevers”
They were left for a reason.

Now Eeyore,
The epitome of “can’t, never and don’t”
hmmmm
me thinks there may be good reason for us to be travelling together.

a test.
I get it, and I, again
face this challenge
head on.

We wandered, and lets just say the term wandering is used very loosely. I had never really paid much attention to Eeyore as a kid, Pooh and Piglet were always my favourites. Man, this guy can whinge! I swallowed all temptation to just sit and cry, took a deep breath and wandered on.

This pace, I must admit, is quite a nice pace to travel at. I originally thought that I would be lost, miss out on all the fun and activity along the way, but in a short time I have gauged the feel of this journey and I think I’ll fit in just fine.

If I travel too fast (there’s something in this to take away with you Samm) I’ll miss everything. The lovely orchids hiding under trees, the beautiful glistening moss on the dark side of the trees, the busy birds way up high in the canopies…. Deep breaths, slow and steady wins the race as Dad always says.

Lets keep moving, I’m really dying to try the Peanut butter marbled brownies that Sage has made for us all….

Traveling Companions

Traveling Companions

I have encountered another traveler on the road and have been invited to a fine lunch and good conversation.

However, even with this wonderful company, I must pause and consider how we travel down the road of our creative life. It IS a lonely life, even if you do have traveling companions. When I consider all the awkward, silent moments from friends and family when I share something I’ve written or rendered, or when I hear those ever-welcome comments: “what’s that supposed to be?” or “that’s….interesting” or some have even rolled their eyes and smirked (thinking I don’t see them), then I realize how really alone I am.

There is some salvation from the group of travelers on this road in their encouraging words and gentle promptings toward discipline. Because of these good souls, I feel a little less lonely.

BUT, ultimately, even with this company, we cannot change the fact that we must CREATE alone. No one sees the world with my eyes, no one can craft my story but me. So the secret is not to confuse being alone in our creative calling with being lonely.

Seek out the kindred spirits when you can to stave off the demons of loneliness, but if need be, be prepared to go it alone.

Lori Gloyd (c) May 16, 2006

Cher-lynn and I

I might have missed her, you know –
all that dust from the eager throng
and recalcitrant donkey distraction
you’ve been relating –
and she being shy and unsure
of why I (or anyone) would ask
for the donkey forgotten.

I tarried in my usual way – writing,
supported by forgiving seat-grass
and a nestle-warm cedar stump.
The presence of another shadow
might not have fringed my focus at all,
except that her eyes could not remain silent.

“I am called faucon, or papa,” said I;
in music to blend with the uphill brook.

a look into her eyes –

“and I am blessed!”

“What was the name of the first
girl you ever kissed?” the donkey asked.

“forget the spin-the-bottle stuff and cousin pecks.”

“Cherylynne,” tumbled out before memory caught up.

“Then you can call me ‘Cher-lynn’, perhaps.”

I sang her a little song that is of no import,
(except that she hums the tune at sunset)

“It is right that you carry your staff and scroll,”
she offered. “I will carry the pouch, bedroll and food.”

I did not ask after the stubby wings
strapped to her sides with silken twine,
though I knew she thought I might.

I just set off, leaving scant footprints
as is my way; but readily marking the trail
with staff-pocks every fourth stride –

in between strides the whirling Sequoia branch
traces a figure eight in the air …
an infinity sign,
followed by the symbol Phi …
and we are off,
she somewhere behind.

Message from the Universe, via fat little carrier pigeon

If you would simply think deeply, Kim, on the things you’ve loved most about life; on the things you’ve loved most about yourself; and of the main challenges you’ve faced, whether behind you or in the moment; you will then know in an instant, beyond a shadow of a doubt, exactly “why you are here.”

Most fondly, The Universe

I received this message this morning as Roselea and I loaded up and headed down the green moss path. If I think about it, I will know why I am here. Are the answers that easy? Is the reason just waiting for me to reveal it to myself? And where the heck is Blind Springs?

Fondly, from the path,
Blueridgegirl

Le Enchanteur thinks she is a Buccaneer

Here we are, struggling along the Serpentine Road while le Enchanteur plays at being a bold buccaneer over at Dead Man’s Chest. Honestly! I wish she would concentrate and make herself useful instead of leaving me to do everything.

A Rest Along the Way–Pondering Discipline

A Rest Along the Way– Pondering Discipline

We have stopped for a rest along the road. My trusty steed has informed me that inspite of what Big Mike told me, his name is actually Sweet ALBERT.

While Sweet Albert grazes along the side of the road, I am taking moment to enjoy the beauty of the woods and to ponder my own creative routines.

I have none.

Indeed, I labor all day, do my physical regime three times a week, do my household chores daily as needed, gather with my fellowship of believers once a week to hear the Holy Texts, and as much as possible visit with friends and family.

But as far as inner habits go, I am very derelict. Only since I’ve come on this journey do I write or create on a daily basis, though once, a long time ago, I did do these things with far more regularity.

Nor do I read like as I once did. I used to read a book or a scroll for hours at a time, lying on a lounge, sipping cold drinks. Now, I read in fits and starts, falling asleep after only a page or two. At one time, I did the Form of the Taoist Masters daily, at dawn, listening to the cries of the mourning doves. And I used to pray. Oh, how I did pray– and at times, the Heavens answered me.

I hope this journey will rekindle all these disciplines and bring me back to those habits that nurtured the inner spirit.

“Cloak” Revised: Lori Gloyd (c) May 15, 2006

Daily Routine

A daily routine?
Whyever did you ask!
The one wished for?
Or the one granted.

In my wished-for days
I arise, refreshed
No snoring, his or mine,
Has disturbed the night.
I sing down thanks to the Spirit
For another glorious day
And under the shower
I pray for my family.

Over a cup of tea
I peruse the headlines
And later in the bliss of solitude
Invoke from my books,
my garden- (the lemon tree.)
Some affirmation,
Some motivation
Peace and direction.

A coffee with the dog
At James’ Cafe,
Crying over the miners and little Sophie.
(His magazines are up to date).

A blur of music, and calls to friends
My soulmates.
Checking emails and Soul Cafe..
My cyber soulmates.

An evening baptism of hot water
Candles and bubbles.
Gratitude in my journal,
Meditation at the last.

The reality of my granted days
is sprinkled with work,
Paid and unpaid.
Anxiety,
Necessary and unnecessary.
Unmade beds,dirty dishes and laundry.
A sighing husband, obstinate children,
Unpaid bills and a ticking clock.

Through it all flows somehow
Energy and hoped for courage,
Gratitude and serenity.
(Wisdom?)
That are provenanced from the routine
Of my wished for days.