Ancestral Mythology, Vol 1.

This is a story of the People.

*

Long, long ago when the earth was still bright eyed and the People did not yet know Her fullness, the sun shone harsh and baked the soil.  For weeks the People stood with parched tongues at the valley edge, watching the storm clouds high above the mountain range.  High, higher than anyone had dared climb, so high their eyes watered and wept, so high the trees sighed and released their leaves.  In the valley the grasses withered and the children cried out for the hunger in their bellies.  The women huddled and in hushed tones wondered where to lead their tribe. 

The eldest woman cried out "Deer Mother, Deer Mother, how do we save our babies?  Where will we lead our men?"  And so Deer ran down from the trees and walked among the People, noting their empty baskets and innocent hearts.  She looked to the high mountains, flowering and lush.

"You must travel North," Deer said, "You must follow the rain for in its path the land springs green eternal.

"But we can not climb so high" lamented the People.  "Our feet are too broad for the narrow trails, our toes too tender for the shale.  Our legs are not strong enough for those steep sides and we shall surely fall to our death."

Deer looked at the People with their wide open eyes full of hope and fear.

"Climb," she said, dropping to her knees.  "Climb and I will carry you."  And so the People clambered upon her back, the young, the old, the men, the women.  She carried them high, higher than any had ever traveled before, so high that when the People turned they saw the whole of the Earth stretched out before them and their eyes were opened to Her fullness.  Deer carried them until the air was scented with the tang of damp loam and the grasses grew thick and dark.  The People slid off her back, kissed her neck, and ate their fill.

*

And that child, is how we became a People of the Deer.

Ancestral Mythology: People of the Deer

(sterling silver, prehnite, amazonite, and gaspeite)

Sketchbook Writings

~ From my sketchbook writings, May 17th 2013 ~

Here is what I love about the sea, the Sound, the great swirl of salt and heaving life.  Here is the outpouring, unlocking, loosening of the throat, the bone striping wind, the olfactory discord of decay and bloom, the bewitching mortality of it all.

I stand at the edge.

I can love her tender, I can rage tempestuous, I can gather her bits of stone and shell, I can throw them back with unnecessary force.  She is not gentle, she is not kind.  Do not be fooled by fairy tales and sweet song.  But she is whole.  Birth and life and death incarnat.

* * *

Whenever I visit these so-called grey beaches of the northern pacific, all I see is color.  The subtle layering of mountain ranges shrouded in a watery reflection of sky and sea, the luminosity of big leaf maples in juvenile foliage - a glow that only comes with the mist.  The warm hues of slick driftwood, the iridescent flash of crows and the hot punch of red-winged blackbirds.  And then of course, the stones.
If you but call out a color, say, Mustard! then suddenly they appear as speckled pockets of glowing chroma.  Coral! and the beach comes alive with vermillion hues.  Teal! and my hand becomes greedy, my thighs gritty with sand as I wipe down stone after stone.
I am the magpie.
I am the wandering gypsy with pockets full of treasure.
Whisper me a salty tale and I'll share with you my trove.
* * *

Unabashed

Today:  I am filled with the kindess of strangers and the warmth of feeling known by the closest of confidants.  My hair is still in knots from last night's sunset driving with all the windows down and Neko Case is stuck on repeat in my head.  I feel a tenderness towards humanity that is too often reserved for the trees.  I feel fiercely determined, I feel the stirring to create, I feel the apprehension of upcoming appointments that place a time stamp on the future.  My feet already hold a sharp flip-flop tan and I'm giddy to see the snap peas are blooming.  I'm dusting off words that have been left idle by the roadside.  I am a daughter of the earth, I am on time for my life.

* * *

Good God of 85 Degree Temps.
Holla.
And welcome.

How was your weekend?  I managed to flash my thighs in the sunshine whilst day drinking and veggie planting... oh the holy trifecta of Summer living.  When you hold such a watery heart and a coastal soul, it's easy to forget how utterly delicious this weather can be.  On today's menu?  Lilac plucking and toe painting.  After the work day of course.  Or maybe smack in the middle.  It's a physical hardship for me to stay inside.  I know, I know, this LIFE!  Whee!

I've been thinking much lately on trying to pull all of my body, all of my mind into the physical place I stand on the earth.  Blame it on a wanderer's spirit, a gypsy heritage or past lives, but I find myself all too often residing in one place while my heart wanders the hillsides of another.  I thirst for salt air, for snow caps, for warm oak leaves, for hawk cries, for sisters who laugh, for lonely roads, and for languid meals.  It's something like wanderlust, but deeper, a searching for the fertile soil of roots that run deep, and slivers of earth that cradle my form.  Days like this make it easy to dig fully into the place I stand, so I take them, gulp them down greedily, and fill myself up with their contentment.  I walk barefoot and run my hands along the trees.  On others my feet twitch and I crave the sight of every new thing, the experience of every fresh locale, but deeper still I crave the foundation of home.
As ever, I am a dichotomy.
But I wouldn't trade it for the world.
* * *
The wind whistles too sweetly through this old house, and I need to check in on the cucumbers.  Or something like that.
Here's me, wishing you lollypops and unicorns!
~ U ~

Salt Air

 

I don't know if this is true of other oceans,
Of warmer shores or bluer waters,
But when I breath in the mist of Mamma Pacific,
Time no longer matters.
* * *