Monthly Archives: January 2017

La Loba

Boulet_InTheCompanyOfWolves_1993_100

There is an old woman who lives in a hidden place that everyone knows in their souls but few have ever seen. As in the fairy tales of Eastern Europe, she seems to wait for lost or wandering people and seekers to come to her place.

She is circumspect, often hairy, always fat, and especially wishes to evade most company. She is both a crower and a cackler, generally having more animal sounds than human ones.

I might say she lives among the rotten granite slopes in Tarahumara Indian territory. Or that she is buried outside Phoenix near a well. Perhaps she will be seen traveling south to Monte Alban in a burnt out car with the back window shot out. Or maybe she will be spotted standing by the highway near El Paso, or riding shotgun with truckers to Morelia, Mexico, or walking to market above Oaxaca with strangely formed boughs of firewood on her back. She calls herself by many names: La Huesera, Bone Woman; La Trapera, The Gatherer; and La Loba, Wolf Woman.

The sole work of La Loba is the collecting of bones. She collects and preserves especially that which is in danger of being lost to the world. Her cave is filled with the bones of all manner of desert creatures: the deer, the rattlesnake, the crow. But her specialty is wolves.

She creeps and crawls and sifts through the mountains, and arroyos, looking for wolf bones, and when she has assembled an entire skeleton, when the last bone is in place and the beautiful white sculpture of the creature is laid out before her, she sits by the fire and thinks about what song she will sing.

And when she is sure, she stands over the criatura, raises her arms over it, and sings out. That is when the rib bones and leg bones of the wolf begin to flesh out and the creature becomes furred. La Loba sings some more, and more of the creature comes into being; its tail curls upward, shaggy and strong.

And La Loba sings more and the wolf creature begins to breathe.

And still La Loba sings so deeply that the floor of the desert shakes, and as she sings, the wolf opens its eyes, leaps up, and runs away down the canyon.

Somewhere in its running, whether by the speed of its running, or by splashing its way into a river, or by way of a ray of sunlight or moonlight hitting it right in the side, the wolf is suddenly transformed into a laughing woman who runs free toward the horizon.

So remember if you wander the desert, and it is near sundown, and you are perhaps a little bit lost, and certainly tired, that you are lucky, for La Loba may take a liking to you and show you something – something of the soul.

~from Women Who Run With the Wolves
by Clarissa Pinkola Estes

Look!

moon

Look –
The moon thumbs through night’s book.
Finds a lake where nothing is printed.
Draws a straight line.
That’s all it can.
That’s enough.
Thick line. Straight toward you.
– Look.

Rolf Jacobsen

The Courtship of Inanna and Damuzi

The courtship of Inanna and Dumuzi is one of the oldest love poems from the ancient world. It is a story of love between the gods (although some argue that Dumuzi was a real person, who rose to power, and so attained mythical divine status). When the gods consummate their love the result is fecundity on earth, particularly for their worshipers.

This Sumerian text is often compared to the Song of Songs. The Egyptian love poetry makes a better parallel, but there are some connections. However, a word of warning, this is much more explicitly sexual than the Song of Songs, and, of course, it is about divine lovers.

164276_177523012403024_1373354843_n

Here it is:

The brother spoke to this younger sister
The Sun God, Utu, spoke to Inanna, saying:

‘Young Lady, the flax in its fullness is lovely,
Inanna, the grain is glistening in the furrow.
I will hoe it for you, I will bring it to you
A piece of linen, big or small, is always needed.
Inanna, I will bring it to you.’

‘Brother, after you’ve brought me the flax, who will comb it for me?
Sister, I will bring it to you combed.’
‘Utu, after you’ve brought it to me combed, who will spin it for me?
‘Sister, I will bring it to you spun.’
‘Brother, after you’ve brought the flax to me spun, who will braid it for me?
‘Sister, I will bring it to you braided.’
‘Utu, after you’ve brought it to me braided, who will warp it for me?’
‘Inanna, I will bring it to you warped.’
‘Brother, after you’ve brought the flax to me warped, who will weave it for me?’
‘Sister, I will bring it to you woven.’
‘Utu, after you’ve brought it to me woven, who will bleach it for me?’
‘Inanna, I will bring it to you bleached.’

‘Brother, after you’ve brought my bridal sheet to me,
Who will go to bed with me?
Utu, who will go to bed with me?’

‘Sister, your bridegroom will go to be with you
He who was born from a fertile womb,
He who was conceived on the sacred marriage throne
Dumuzi, the shepherd! He will go to bed with you.’

Inanna bathed and anointed herself with scented oil.
She covered her body with the royal robe
She arranged her precious lapis beads around her neck
She took the royal seal in her hand
Dumuzi waited expectantly
Inanna opened the door for him
Inside the house she shone before him
Like the light of the moon
Dumuzi looked at her joyously
He pressed his neck close against hers
He kissed her Continue reading

The Dryad

Here is a story about a Dryad by Hans Christian Anderson.

dryad_by_okha-d4w88tu

We are travelling to Paris to the Exhibition. Now we are there. That was a journey, a flight without magic. We flew on the wings of steam over the sea and across the land. Yes, our time is the time of fairy tales.

We are in the midst of Paris, in a great hotel. Blooming flowers ornament the staircases, and soft carpets the floors.

Our room is a very cozy one, and through the open balcony door we have a view of a great square. Spring lives down there; it has come to Paris, and arrived at the same time with us. It has come in the shape of a glorious young chestnut tree, with delicate leaves newly opened. How the tree gleams, dressed in its spring garb, before all the other trees in the place! One of these latter had been struck out of the list of living trees. It lies on the ground with roots exposed. On the place where it stood, the young chestnut tree is to be planted, and to flourish.

It still stands towering aloft on the heavy wagon which has brought it this morning a distance of several miles to Paris. For years it had stood there, in the protection of a mighty oak tree, under which the old venerable clergyman had often sat, with children listening to his stories.

The young chestnut tree had also listened to the stories; for the Dryad who lived in it was a child also. She remembered the time when the tree was so little that it only projected a short way above the grass and ferns around. These were as tall as they would ever be; but the tree grew every year, and enjoyed the air and the sunshine, and drank the dew and the rain. Several times it was also, as it must be, well shaken by the wind and the rain; for that is a part of education.

The Dryad rejoiced in her life, and rejoiced in the sunshine, and the singing of the birds; but she was most rejoiced at human voices; she understood the language of men as well as she understood that of animals.

Butterflies, cockchafers, dragon-flies, everything that could fly came to pay a visit. They could all talk. They told of the village, of the vineyard, of the forest, of the old castle with its parks and canals and ponds. Down in the water dwelt also living beings, which, in their way, could fly under the water from one place to another—beings with knowledge and delineation. They said nothing at all; they were so clever!

And the swallow, who had dived, told about the pretty little goldfish, of the thick turbot, the fat brill, and the old carp. The swallow could describe all that very well, but, “Self is the man,” she said. “One ought to see these things one’s self.” But how was the Dryad ever to see such beings? She was obliged to be satisfied with being able to look over the beautiful country and see the busy industry of men.

It was glorious; but most glorious of all when the old clergyman sat under the oak tree and talked of France, and of the great deeds of her sons and daughters, whose names will be mentioned with admiration through all time.

Then the Dryad heard of the shepherd girl, Joan of Arc, and of Charlotte Corday; she heard about Henry the Fourth, and Napoleon the First; she heard names whose echo sounds in the hearts of the people.

The village children listened attentively, and the Dryad no less attentively; she became a school-child with the rest. In the clouds that went sailing by she saw, picture by picture, everything that she heard talked about. The cloudy sky was her picture-book.

She felt so happy in beautiful France, the fruitful land of genius, with the crater of freedom. But in her heart the sting remained that the bird, that every animal that could fly, was much better off than she. Even the fly could look about more in the world, far beyond the Dryad’s horizon.

France was so great and so glorious, but she could only look across a little piece of it. The land stretched out, world-wide, with vineyards, forests and great cities. Of all these Paris was the most splendid and the mightiest. The birds could get there; but she, never!

Among the village children was a little ragged, poor girl, but a pretty one to look at. She was always laughing or singing and twining red flowers in her black hair.

“Don’t go to Paris!” the old clergyman warned her. “Poor child! if you go there, it will be your ruin.”

But she went for all that. Continue reading

The Golden Waterfall of Peace and Blessings

Golden Dakini
The Golden Waterfall of Peace and Blessings

golden-lotus-dakini-goddess-painting-multi-media--UDU2Ny05MDgwMi4zMTkzNjU=

I am the Dakini of calming, healing, and making whole
I am invoked when the meditator is tired, disillusioned, or sad
I come to aid those who have tried sincerely but have not the strength
To fight their way to liberation
I strengthen the weak, and bring idealism and compassion
I have them help themselves on their own path
by helping others.

What does spirituality mean?
It is more than renunciation, more than ambition, more than fighting temptation
It is helping the world as you pass through it
It is sanctifying all aspects of life and blessing them
It is seeing the divine in all things.

As a Dakini, I am a spiritual guide and inspirational muse
I nurture people along the path
I encourage them towards liberation
As the spirit seeks ever-greater beauty and freedom

I am the loving mother, the wise grandmother, and the charming beloved
I take many forms shining with the light of peace
When I appear in meditation, my light falls like a golden waterfall
Shining all around turning everything beautiful
I give patience and understanding, charity, and a desire to help
Those who know me look at the world in a different way.

I cannot solve all problems
I am not a god
But I am a helper, and in helping I find joy
I soothe the pains of loneliness, rejection, and false pride
I bring people to see truth

Visualize me sitting on a golden lotus,
against a golden setting sun
The lotus floats on waters that are deep blue and green
The sky is gold and pale blue
I wear golden jewelry and pearls,
and gold and white silk
My vajra crown is also made of gold
My face is smiling, and my long dark hair is graceful and curling
I hold a mirror and a mala of yellow topaz.

My music makes warm winds
and flows through nature
Like a breath of sweet air through a field of sunflowers
Meditation holds the danger of becoming rejecting and hard of heart
The danger of pride, hatred, anger, and superiority
I wash these away with my golden light
I give a path of peace and blessing
So that the seeker may walk a clear path
And the pebbles turn golden at his feet.

From: Buddha Nature

Everything In Between

tumblr_o6fz3ig6Gh1uno395o1_r1_400

“Together the magicks swirled and danced around us, invisible but tangible, like an breeze. This wasn’t defensive or offensive magic. It wasn’t used to gather information, for strategy or diplomacy, or to fight a war against supernatural enemy.

It simply was.

It was fundamental, inexorable. It was nothing and everything, infinity and oblivion, from the magnificent furnace of a star to the electrons that hummed in an atom. It was life and death and everything in between, the urge to fight and grow and swim and fly. It was a cascade of water across boulders, the slow-moving advance of mountain glaciers, the march of time.”

Chloe Neill, Wild Things

In Our Bones

35640_438960932837146_1822008814_n

We locked up our wisdom into our bones
And swallowed the keys
They sank in our rivers of blood
And we forgot the maps
Because we had to forget the mysteries
To keep them safe.
We wove our hair into brooms
And swept over our paths
And then burned the earth with our rage
We didn’t teach our children
It was the only way to protect them,
we thought
But in them we planted seeds, seeds and keys
And told them stories and riddles and songs
With no roots, just tangled threads
That would take years to unwind
Just enough time
For the rains to fall again
And put out the fires
For the dams to break
For the rivers to flood
For the paths to be walked again
For the soil to breathe
And as the old bones crumble
Deep beneath the rubble
We find we’ve always had the keys
Our stories and our maps
Our paths are revealed to some
And the seeds grow again
The threads are unspun
And woven again

Attributions:

Winds Four Quarters

Winds Four Quarters is from the short story Swordsworn in Sword and Sorceress 3 edited by Marion Zimmerman Bradley. It is especially appropriate to be played and sung on the 16th and 17th of January. This was an ancient Greek festival in which offerings were made to the Wind Gods of the eight directions.

Here are the Lyrics:

Wind’s four quarters:
Air and fire
Earth and water
Hear my desire

Grant my plea
Who stands alone
Maid and Warrior
Mother and Crone

Eastern wind blow
Clear blow clean
Cleanse my body
Of it’s pain

Cleanse my mind of
What I’ve seen
Cleanse my honor
Of it’s stain

Maid whose love
Has never ceased
Bring me healing
From the East

Southern wind blow
Hot blow hard
Fan my courage
To a flame

Southern wind be
Guide and guard
Add your bravery
To my name

Let my will
And yours be twined
Warrior of
The southern wind

Wind’s four quarters:
Air and fire
Earth and water
Hear my desire

Grant my plea
Who stands alone
Maid and Warrior
Mother and Crone

Western wind blow
Stark blow strong
Grant me arm and
Mind of steel

Let our own both
Caught and long
Mother hear me
Where I kneel

Let no weakness
On my quest
Hinder me,
Wind of the West

[Music]

Northern wind blow
Cruel blow cold
Sheave my aching
Heart in ice

All around my
Soul enfold
Crone I need not
Call you twice

To my foes bring
Cold of death
Chill me north winds
Frozen breath

Wind’s four quarters:
Air and fire
Earth and water
Hear my desire

Grant my plea
Who stands alone
Maid and Warrior
Mother and Crone

Maid and warrior
Mother and Crone

From the album: Magic, Moondust, & Melancholy

Snowflake

Snowflake is a Slavonic story from Andrew Lang’s The Pink Fairy Book, published in 1897. This Russian folktale is closely associated with the Russian Christmas which is traditionally celebrated on Jan 6, and also with St John’s Day celebrated on June 24.

39050349_lrstsp08sandersonruththewinterfestival
Once upon a time there lived a peasant called Ivan, and he had a wife whose name was Marie. They would have been quite happy except for one thing: they had no children to play with, and as they were now old people they did not find that watching the children of their neighbours at all made up to them for having one of their own.

One winter, which nobody living will ever forget, the snow lay so deep that it came up to the knees of even the tallest man. When it had all fallen, and the sun was shining again, the children ran out into the street to play, and the old man and his wife sat at their window and gazed at them. The children first made a sort of little terrace, and stamped it hard and firm, and then they began to make a snow woman. Ivan and Marie watched them, the while thinking about many things.

Suddenly Ivan’s face brightened, and, looking at his wife, he said, ‘Wife, why shouldn’t we make a snow woman too?’

‘Why not?’ replied Marie, who happened to be in a very good temper; ‘it might amuse us a little. But there is no use making a woman. Let us make a little snow child, and pretend it is a living one.’

‘Yes, let us do that,’ said Ivan, and he took down his cap and went into the garden with his old wife.

Then the two set to work with all their might to make a doll out of the snow. They shaped a little body and two little hands and two little feet. On top of all they placed a ball of snow, out of which the head was to be.

‘What in the world are you doing?’ asked a passer-by.

‘Can’t you guess?’ returned Ivan.

‘Making a snow-child,’ replied Marie.

They had finished the nose and the chin. Two holes were left for the eyes, and Ivan carefully shaped out the mouth. No sooner had he done so than he felt a warm breath upon his cheek. He started back in surprise and looked–and behold! the eyes of the child met his, and its lips, which were as red as raspberries, smiled at him!

‘What is it?’ cried Ivan, crossing himself. ‘Am I mad, or is the thing bewitched?’

The snow-child bent its head as if it had been really alive. It moved its little arms and its little legs in the snow that lay about it just as the living children did theirs.

‘Ah! Ivan, Ivan,’ exclaimed Marie, trembling with joy, ‘heaven has sent us a child at last!’ And she threw herself upon Snowflake (for that was the snow-child’s name) and covered her with kisses. And the loose snow fell away from Snowflake as an egg shell does from an egg, and it was a little girl whom Marie held in her arms.

‘Oh! my darling Snowflake!’ cried the old woman, and led her into the cottage.

And Snowflake grew fast; each hour as well as each day made a difference, and every day she became more and more beautiful. The old couple hardly knew how to contain themselves for joy, and thought of nothing else. The cottage was always full of village children, for they amused Snowflake, and there was nothing in the world they would not have done to amuse her. She was their doll, and they were continually inventing new dresses for her, and teaching her songs or playing with her.

Nobody knew how clever she was! She noticed everything, and could learn a lesson in a moment. Anyone would have taken her for thirteen at least! And, besides all that, she was so good and obedient; and so pretty, too! Her skin was as white as snow, her eyes as blue as forget-me-nots, and her hair was long and golden. Only her cheeks had no colour in them, but were as fair as her forehead.

So the winter went on, till at last the spring sun mounted higher in the heavens and began to warm the earth. The grass grew green in the fields, and high in the air the larks were heard singing. The village girls met and danced in a ring, singing, ‘Beautiful spring, how came you here? How came you here? Did you come on a plough, or was it a harrow?’ Only Snowflake sat quite still by the window of the cottage. Continue reading

Keeping Quiet

colors-of-silence

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth,
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.

Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

~ By Pablo Neruda
~ from Extravagaria

Worth Exploring
Subscribe
If you'd like to be notified when anything new is posted, you can subscribe via feedburner..

Enter your email address:

Delivered by FeedBurner

Moon Phase Tracker

CURRENT MOON

This moon phase tracker uses flash, if your device is not compatible, try the one at the bottom of the page.

Bread Crumbs
Be Merry


I think it's time to go shopping... maybe even buy some really cool stuff at my online shops!!

Moon Phase Tracker
Here is a moon phase tracker that doesn't use flash, just in case the other one doesn't work on your device.
Stats