Gaia Community: Dryad's Blog

Where do you feel most free?

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 10:56:18 GMT

Following William

Following William

Questing far and deep
I come to the poets
To artists and dreamers of thought who
‘Soar on wings above the earth.
Sometimes to dive and touch the mire
But only to graze, never to be caught’ *

I come here listening
Eternally a learner, ceaselessly a seeker
Made largely of wonder
I search for cloud trails where these feathers have flown
I follow their soaring, tumbling flight, reaching with stretched fingers,
Brushing celestial wings
“Was it thus for you? Indeed? And it is THUS for me!
How same, how different, how changing, how fascinating, don’t you think? . . .”
William cannot answer me,
Not Shakespeare, Blake, Carlos Williams,
Wordsworth or Yeats,
They fly before me
Into a radiant sun split infinity
I can only
Follow

I know how little I know
I know that understanding is a process
Knowledge not a destination

My universe dances in circles of changing chaos
The more I seek, the more I find
The more I find, the more I seek
The more I sense, the more I search
The more I search, the more I recognize
There is relevance in everything
Relationships everywhere

Sorrow, singing, shadows, self
My sacred wind that smelled of stars
Synchronicity . . .
Syzygy . . .
Soul

Unboxed
Unbroken
Unbound

Neither Wordsworth, nor Yeats, Blake nor Carlos Williams
Not even
Shakespeare
Ever had his finger on the pulse of God
They questioned, queried, wondered
Dreamed . . .
In flurry of free-thinking feathers
They fly before me

I can only
Follow

©Edwina Peterson Cross

* From “A Dream Play” by August Strindgerg. Translated by Jerry Turner

Indra’s Daughter speaks to the Poet:
You, child of man, you dreamer
You, skald, who best know how to live,
Soaring on wings above the earth,
Sometimes to dive and touch the mire
But only to graze, never to be caught.”

~
No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings.
(William Blake)

The Birds

The world begins again!
Not wholly insufflated
the blackbirds in the rain
upon the dead topbranches
of the living tree,
stuck fast to the low clouds,
notate the dawn.
Their shrill cries sound
announcing appetite
and drop among the bending roses
and the dripping grass.

(William Carlos Williams)

To the Cuckoo

O blithe newcomer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice:
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?

Though babbling only to the vale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;

O blessed birth! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, fairy place,
That is fit home for Thee!

(William Wordsworth)

The White Birds

I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea:
We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can pass by and flee;
And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky,
Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that never may die.

A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily and rose,
Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes,
Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall of the dew:
For I would we were changed to white birds on the wandering foam—I and you.

I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore,
Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more:
Soon far from the rose and the lily, the fret of the flames, would we be,
Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea.

(William Butler Yeats)

Southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.
(William Shakespeare, Hamlet: II, ii )

Tags: QaR, freedom, free, life, Questing, Poets, Wonder, Flight, Following

Happy Birthday

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 01:56:57 GMT

Happy Birthday with wings of Joy, Dear Anna!

Tags: Birthday, Joy, Hummingbird, Anna, Fly!

Miracles

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 14:09:40 GMT

There is a quiet miracle going on in the Gaia Group “Passing.” The description of the group reads, in part: "For those who have experienced the passing of loved ones from this planet. Looking death in the face. Journeying together. Death as initiation." There are marvelous things being shared there and a great deal of Gaia’ish support. I’m sure that Gaia’ish is a word, even if I just coined it.

Last night, a remarkable tribute by Soccermom left me with tears and without words. I am still amazed to find that there is another part of my brain that will still function when the language section has shut down and the words have disappeared. Even more amazing - to me - are the fingers that do what the brain tells them to. (More or less.)

Miracles are every where, folks. Some of them are even happening in my brain which is a miracle inside of a miracle, inside of another miracle . . .swirled around like a poached egg, only it's my brain and it is poached in a miracle or an old fashioned Top where the string that you pull is the miracle or a Dervish - do you know they don't spot their head's? how do they keep from getting dizzy? I'm quite fascinated with Dervishs, I also like Tops with strings and poached eggs, not to mention brains poached in swirling miracles . . . Do you remember putting crepe paper around the spokes of your bicycle? It went around in a very pleasing way, especially if the crepe paper was pink . . .

Are you confused yet? If you aren’t confused, it would be a miracle.

This is the painting I did for Soccermom last night. It is titled, “Carla’s Rose.”

Tags: Gaia Group, Passing, Death, Gaia'ish, Support, Miracles

Wildly Gentle

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 11:40:29 GMT

This new painting is for my fellow Water Snake Martha. I have titled the painting with the title Martha uses for herself - one I have always loved - "Wildly Gentle." Here, you see, if you hang around the tree long enough, you start getting ensnared in the Green Stuff. The Dryad isn't always Wildly Gentle, but this one is. Love you, Martha.

Tags: Painting, Martha, Wildly Gentle, Dryad

Love, Laughter & Lilacs

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Sat, 02 May 2009 12:19:05 GMT

There is a bright half-moon floating up above the mountain this morning. It is listing low in the rich, black velvet sea where it sails. It dances smoothly over the myriad of tiny holes that have been snipped in the fabric of night which covers the sky. Through those little snippets the sharp, sweet light of eternity keeps piercing into the deep darkness below. It looks as though, once again, one day has melted into another. That keeps happening with astounding regularity. Again and again, the sun drifts down behind the mountains to do whatever it is that he does over there and the perfect half of Lady Moon embarks again, a craft with no sail bobbing in a sea of sweet salt stars. I am a day late for Beltane greetings; yesterday was a round, soft, full grey day. I walked in the park, empty of tourists and joggers. It was just me, pillows of pearl colored mist, sixty five million shades of green and the ghost of William Shakespeare. We figured some things out. I hope he remembers, because I don’t.

I walked in the park for nearly two hours, got a little damp, but it was utterly worth it. Do you know, in some ways, a pink dogwood tree in full blossom ought to be against the law? Lithia Park is full of them. Heart broken by pink dogwoods in bloom. Only the strong survive.

At our house Beltane and May Day mean lilacs. Unbelievably, it has been more than ten years since both little girls were here delivering more than 60 bundles of flowers all over town. The last couple of years of the adventure they couldn’t get them all done before sunrise and were lucky to be done in time to go to school. It’s been a cold spring and the lilacs are sparse and skimpy this year. Maybe they are just hesitant and being over cautious. I suspect one good day of sun might bring them all out. The lilacs in my memory, however, are prolific and rich. I can see them just as clearly as I see the little girls who gifted them so joyously to the world.

Joyous Beltane all . . .
Love, Laughter and Lilacs . . .

Edwina

Tags: Beltane, May Day, Lilacs

Perspective, The Grinch, Jacob Marley and An Exquisite Corpse

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 17:57:01 GMT

“THEN HE GOT AN IDEA. AN AWFUL IDEA.
THE GRINCH GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA . . .”

The Grinch Got an Idea

It was perspective that I was thinking of when The Grinch first turned up in my painting. I hadn’t been expecting him, to say the least, but there he was and the perspective was, indeed, kind of interesting. Perspective wandered away fairly quickly, however, and I began to wonder if Mr. Grinch was Surreal or Abstract, Something-Else or None-of-the-Above. This isn’t something I usually care about one way or the other, but, upon reflection, I realized that there are currently all kinds of “Art Words” floating around in my head like Jacob Marley.

Of course, I only wanted to know Mr. Grinch’s particulars so that I would be able to file him in the correct place. That last sentence is beyond sounding like I am haunted. It doesn’t sound like me at all. I have spent the past week beginning the rather daunting process of cataloguing my paintings, something I have never really done before. Up until now, they have been in a glorious, creative state of . . . I was looking for a positive word for chaos. I guess the word ‘chaos’ itself is as close as I’m going to get; the synonyms are all definitely on the negative side. There really is something creative and innovative about chaos. However, the time has come, the walrus said, and some kind of order is going to have to join the chaos of creation. I have reached a place in my life where I need my paintings and being able to find them is the first step. I am also attempting to classify them, at least roughly. Which ones are best? What is the subject matter? What category does each fall into? Roughly. Very roughly. Many of them are in the same situation as Mr. Grinch. Is it Abstract Art? Is it Surrealism? Or is it just someone with a screw loose?

While trying to get a hold on what certain art terms really mean, I came across something so delicious. It was like finding a raspberry truffle tucked in the middle of a box of sugar-free peppermint life-savors.

Exquisite Corpse.

I am very fond of the whole idea of ‘Exquisite Corpse’ (or cadavre exquis. SEE BELOW.) I LOVE the name. This is a GAME that I have played with children (and other screwy adults) many times. I got a huge kick out of learning that the Surrealists played it together as well. It certainly makes sense. As a group, they were not exactly conservative and staid.

Play Pod has been very quiet for some time while I was busy being very sick. We may have gotten a handle on what is going on with me physically. I hope so. I am feeling better and hope to be Playing again soon. I send many thanks to the dedicated “Mod Squad” who held things together without me. I’m going to be sending a mailing to the whole Pod after the Holidays. I couldn’t help myself, however, I went ahead and set Exquisite Corpse up at Play Pod, if anyone wants to start playing, it’s HERE.

It was a good time to do it since I have 592 other things that I have to finish before next week. I seem to always get really gung-ho about doing things when I already have so much to do that there is no way I will ever finish it. I’m sure there is a psychological name for this behavior. Maybe I’ll spend a couple of hours trying to find it this afternoon . . .

The notes below come from my friends at Artcyclopedia. A great resource. They didn’t answer the questions I came with, but they made me wonder about a lot of new things and ask a lot of new questions. I’m sure these behaviors are related. It is possibly a new form of derangement featuring corporate words like “Google” and psycho buzz words like “obsession” or “mania.”
http://www.artcyclopedia.com/scripts/glossary-art-a.html

ABSTRACT ART: abstraction and abstract art - Imagery which departs from representational accuracy, to a variable range of possible degrees, for some reason other than verisimilitude. Abstract artists select and then exaggerate or simplify the forms suggested by the world around them. The paintings of Pablo Picasso (Spanish, 1881-1973) and Georges Braque (French, 1882-1963) as well as the sculptures of Henry Moore (English, 1898-1987), Barbara Hepworth (English, 1903-1975), and Jacques Lipchitz (Russian-American, 1891-1973) are examples of abstract art. Wassily Kandinsky, (Russian, 1866-1944), was one of the first creators of pure abstraction in modern painting. After successful avant-garde exhibitions, he founded the influential Munich group Der Blaue Reiter (The Blue Rider; 1911-1914), when his paintings became completely abstract. His forms evolved from fluid and organic to geometric and, finally, to pictographic.

exquisite corpse or cadavre exquis - Aleatoric techniques for producing either visual or literary art devised by surrealists in which several people collaborate in creating a text or an image. This activity is often called a game, and the product of this activity are also called an exquisite corpse or, in the original French, cadavre exquis. This game is based upon an old parlor game in which players take turns writing on a sheet of paper folded it to conceal part of the writing, and then pass it to the next player for another contribution.

The surrealists' version of the game acquired its name from the results of the first use of the technique. This was a sentence in French: "Le cadavre exquis boira le vin nouveau," meaning "the exquisite corpse will drink the young wine." The first works were sentences, and were first produced in the mid-1920s. Later literary works were typically poetry. These bizarre compositions were explained by Nicolas Calas as revealing the "unconscious reality in the personality of the group."

Surrealism was embraced by practicioners of many arts, and so it was inevitable that visual artists would take it up, first to produce drawings and collages. The first such efforts, reminiscent of children's books that allow the making of pictures with multiple pages divided at various levels, involved assigning a section of a body to each player. Most resulted in images that only vaguely resembled the human form. Some of the participants in early exquisite corpses were Yves Tanguy (French, 1900-1955), Joan Miró (Spanish, 1893-1983), and Man Ray (American, 1890-1977). Later adaptations have involved using other means of passing the work around, such as sending it through the mail; or using other media, resulting in sculpture, film, digital, etc.

It is the revelations of the "unconscious reality in the personality of the group,” that I find fascinating as far as playing at Play Pod and with members of Gaia. There are two different forms of the game set up right now, both of them involving drawing. When the quiet of January descends, I’m hoping to get different forms of the Game set up using words and poetry. We start out very simple with the old game of Head, Tummy and Legs. Imagine, however, any other form of art that has been done by several different Gaian’s revealing the “unconscious reality in the personality of the group.” The possibilities are endless and tremendously exciting.

Come and check it out! It might just be the diversion you need to help you forget the 326 things you have to finish before Sunday.

©Edwĭna Peterson Cross

Tags: Perspective, Haunted, 'Art Words', Creativity & Chaos, Order, Exquisite Corpse, Surrealist's Game, Play Pod

A Rose by Any Other Name Might Sound Like Wienerschnitzel

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 18:24:20 GMT

It began because my files are in such a mess. I do not have a liner mind at all, and certainly not one that comprehends how to file things for easy retrieval. I am always naming files with interesting names that I can’t remember later. I’ve tried using the date first, but then I can’t remember when I wrote something. This is utterly bizarre, but it is the truth: sometimes it is faster for me to find something by Googling myself than it is to find it in the files in my computer. I wanted to tell someone about a birthday party I had done for my daughter using a poster by SARK. I knew it was on the web somewhere because I wrote it up once when I was in on an interview of SARK. I sure couldn’t find it in my files. Finally, I Googled my named & SARK and there it was.
http://www.outbackonline.net/choc%20box/choc_cross_Artist_%20Party.htm
SARK (Susan) loved my party, by the way.

I don't remember what I was looking for when disaster struck, but I put in Edwina Peterson Cross and among the various things - this came up:

edwina

ACK!!!!

DOUBLE ACK!!!

OH. MY. GOD. WHAT IS THIS?!? I didn't know what it was, but I got a very uneasy feeling somewhere in the area of my . . . (lets see what do I have left?) Pancreas. I was especially upset by the one with the purple crayon. I used to write my name like that - with the N backwards. All in caps. I've even written a poem about it. How did they know? And what if it has something to do with Harold? We had some trouble at our house the LAST time Harold and his purple crayon got loose. (It’s rated X, see me if you’d like particulars.)

I was so uneasy about the whole thing that I sort of blocked it out and I never chased it around trying to find out more. But it kept lurking there, making me feel squemey. A week or so ago for some reason, the squemey over took me and I started looking to see if I could find out more. And, of course, most unfortunately, I did.

http://www.mtishows.com/show_home.asp?ID=000212

I went to this page and I immediately became nauseous and had to find my purple bowl. It is pretty drastic. Thirteen year-old Edwina Spoonapple would do just about anything to be a part of the Kalamazoo Advice-a-palooza Festival. Oh lord!! Cute Edwina Spoonapple (gag) has two best friends; Becky " A Perky and Enthusiastic Cheerleader" and Kelli, a "Cool and sophisticated ballerina."

Is someone doing this to torture me? Could something this horrible possibly be a coincidence? Is this someone involved with this some arch nemesis from my past who has caught up with me and discovered the ultimate way to torture me?

I spent a couple of shaky minutes reading this fascinating plot and the description of the songs . . . about how to set the table correctly and RSVP, say "No Thank You" and act like a lady. If you don't get the spoons and forks in the right place at the table, you are worth nothing. Someone should take you to the Sheriff and make sure you are destroyed.

My major emotion at this point was a deep and horrible sense of impending doom. There are two songs in the song list that have my name in them. One is 'Dear Edwina' the other 'Edwina.' A profound fear had begun to sink it's snarky, slobbering teeth into my heart. Some of the songs have clips, neither of the 'Edwina' songs do, but . . . But. I know somewhere that you can find anything. Yes, it's true. With a heavy heart - full of snarky, slobbering teeth marks - I drug myself with quaking fingers over to U-Tube. And there it was.

Edwina

Oh, lord.

"Dear Edwina, the Musical." It's like a bad parody of Waiting for Guffman. Choreographed by someone who was stoned on Nyquel. All along, however, I knew that the worst part was coming, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I'm not kidding now. When the poor child with the voice that is cracking, began to warble and then screech the horrible massacre of my given name, I was so freaked that I screamed. My hands were shaking and I couldn't find the place to push to make it stop. It just kept going, screeching and shrilling and shrieking. Immediately, I'm right back in Elementary School and David Bahler and all those other stupid boys - and several girls as well - are all singing it at me. Like when they called me EdWeenie and EdWienerschnitzel (If you are out there Bahler, you know you did.)

Now, I’m afraid to even go into this, because of the horrible thought that came with it. It’s a thought I have never had before, though I can’t imagine why.

Let me explain: My name is Ed-WIN-ah. I was named after my father whose name was Ed-WIN. All you do is put an “A” on the end. Ed-WIN-ah. For some reason, however, people look at my name and say: Edweeeeeena. I can’t imagine why. You can NOT get weeeeeen out of WIN. It is impossible in English. My father was not named Edweeen. There IS a variation on my name which is spelled Edweena. That one is pronounced with a double ee sound. My name is not. Still. Every receptionist at ever doctor’s office, when it is my turn, sings out “Edweeeeena?” “It’s EdWINa.” I tell them. “Oh! Sorry.” Sometimes people really get snippy when you tell them they have pronounced your name wrong, as if it were a social faux pas. It doesn’t matter anyway, because the next time you go there and it is your turn, the same person will say, “Edweeeeeeena?”

When I started Junior High (which was a bad idea anyway) I went from having one teacher who had known me since Kindergarten to seven teachers who didn’t know me from Adam. Or Edweeena. After about two months of saying over and over, “It’s EdWINa,” one day I just woke up and I was Winnie. It’s a silly name, but not for an eleven-year-old. My family had always called me Wina - or the obvious: Pooh. Pooh didn’t seem like a good choice, for also obvious reasons. I went with Winnie because every one else at this time was named Sandi, Gerri, Suzi, Meri, Etci. I left the “e” on the end - rather than becoming Winni - because, while being an almost adolescent who wanted to sound like everyone else, I never was a complete conformer. I started to write it on my papers, people picked it up easily, and in about another month I was Winnie - where I remained for a long time.

I got married young. Actually ‘Winnie Peterson’ is a little whiney, but it lasted less than ten years and ‘Winnie Cross’ works just fine. My first publications were done under the name ‘Winnie Peterson,’ and then ‘Winnie Cross.’ Somewhere along the way, I began to think that the name didn’t really sound right for a poet. Besides, I wanted my own name back. I love my name, when it is pronounced correctly.

When I told my Daddy that I had decided to use my entire name for publication purposes, he cried. He said that he had never really felt bad about my using a nick-name, but he was really happy that I would go down in publication eternity as “Edwina.” I decided that it would be acceptable to use my entire name by counting the syllables in ‘Marion Zimmer Bradly.’ ‘Edwina Peterson Cross’ has exactly the same number. I figured if MZB could do it, so could I.

Here it comes. The thought that for some reason never entered my head. I am a multi-published writer - most of it poetry. I don’t count, but it’s up in the 400+ range. While the poor adolescent child was warbling my name wrong, for some reason, I suddenly realized that there were people all over everywhere who had READ my name in print and very possibly . . . VERY possibly said “Edweeeena Peterson Cross” in their head. Or when speaking to someone else about a poem. Or whatever. Which is why I screamed.

I’d like to think that the penchant to pronounce an ‘i’ as a double ‘ee’ is limited to doctor’s receptionists, nurses and Junior High teachers. I’m afraid that is faulty logic. I’m sorry, but given my experience with people who pronounce my name out loud and given the percentage that pronounce it wrong - I can expect that probably the majority of the people who have read my work, think that it was written by an atrocious, overeducated weenie.

I said to my daughter, “I'm going to have to go back to using ‘Winnie’. I can't stand the thought of anyone looking at it and pronouncing it like that in their head.” Unfortunately, it is just a little late for that realization. Besides, I don’t want to. I suppose I could start using one of my nom de plume’s as my major signature. But you can’t really do that, it would mix every one up and besides it takes all the fun out of a nom de plume if it isn’t . . . plume. Why didn’t I ever think of it before? Wishful thinking? Mind block? Stupidity?

Technically, any vowel that is not marked with a macron - which is the straight line that denotes a long vowel - is always pronounced as a short vowel. Short i makes the sound that begins the word "India" or "idiom." Even if it were a long vowel, it would make the sound of "Eye" which would give you Ed-W-EYE-N-ah. That is also drastic, but I only remember that happening once or twice in my life. I checked several different sites and I am correct - when the name is spelled "Edwina" there is NO way to pronounce it but Ed-WIN-ah ~ the feminine of the name Edwin, Edwin with an a on the end. Edwin-a. There is no way to get the long E sound from the way my name is spelled. But the majority of people do it anyway.

I decided that thought there wasn’t anything I could do about what is already out there, I had to do something for the future. I toyed around with Edwyna. I like the way it looks and it would be less likely to be pronounced wrong. Edwyna Peterson Cross In the end, however, it is not my name. I was given my father's name and I am very proud of that. It is the feminine of my brother's name, something we have shared for our entire lives. It was my Great-Grandfather's name - I was named for Charles Edwin Loose, and I am proud of that as well. Most of all, however, it was my Daddy's name, which I was given to me, with love, by my mother. I want to be able to use my own name, but I do NOT want anyone - even in their own head - to pronounce it ‘Edweeeena’. So. An accent mark.

Technically, this little half moon is called a breve ( ̆ ) and denotes the short sound of a vowel. So far, this is the best I can do. I'm going to keep working on it. It doesn't look bad here. The 'i' looks a little chunky in Word Perfect. It comes from Word Perfect: Insert/symbol/multi-national. In Microsoft Word the same thing is available under: Insert/symbol/Subset Latin Extended-A. Both Word Perfect and Microsoft Word have the breve by itself, but I can’t figure how to get it OVER the i. I takes a space by itself and so you get a space. There is, no doubt, a way to do that, but I haven't figured it out. Actually, most of the time I cut and paste it. When I write my name by hand, I will make the breve rather than dotting the 'i'.

My daughter looked at it and said, “it will never make a bit a difference. No one will notice the breve, and even if they do, they won’t know what it is.” Gnash. Gnash.

What do you think? If you know of a way of doing it that might be better and/or easier, please let me know.

©Edwĭna Peterson Cross

Ed-WIN-ah

Tags: Names, Googling Myself, SARK, Dear Edwina, the Musical, Mispronunciation, Accent Marks?, What do you think?

Gaia Holiday Gift! To Really Feel The Joy of the Solstice Turning

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 18:11:20 GMT

Father Winter Solstice

I have borrowed these exquisite images from Samme - who has many beautiful holiday images on his profile page right now as part of his gaiaholiday Gifting fun. This is my next gift! It is something that is going to happen anyway, but I am gifting everyone the ability to really feel it this year.

In the Northern Hemisphere the Winter Solstice occurs on December 21, 2008, 7:04 EST - 12:04 UT (Universal Time.) The Winter Solstice brings the shortest day of the year and the longest night. The year gets colder and colder, darker and darker, and then just when it seems that winter might last forever - comes the Solstice! and New Hope is Born! The word "Solstice" actually stems from "Sun Stand Still" as if the sun pauses, a big switch is flipped and the world turns again, the other way - toward the light. There are many different celebrations that come at this time of year which are based on light, many of these honoring the hope that light brings.

In some ways it amazes me that our ancient ancestors knew when to celebrate the Solstice - that they knew precisely when the world begins it's journey back to the light, back to the warmth, back toward spring. The truth is, our ancestors were much more in tune with the earth than we are; they were able to feel its nuances and changes.

I have been working for years to learn to feel the moon again, to know when She is full, waxing or waning, to feel it in my body the way all women once could. I have also begun to really be able to feel the turning of the year in my body. I know the Solstice is coming, I can feel it. I want to share this true feeling, a kind of deep joy, with all of you.

I want to share the reality of it, soon the days will begin to be longer, there will be more light. I want to share the metaphor of it. Let us believe that the sad, difficult, violent days are behind us that they will disappear with the dark. As this year turns toward the light, let us believe that better, kinder, brighter days are coming for our world as well. Let us embrace the hope of the light and believe in it's promise.

MAY YOU FEEL THE TURNING.
MAY YOU KNOW THE JOY !
MAY YOU BE FILLED WITH THE HOPE IT BRINGS!

And our friends in the Southern Hemisphere are already in the middle of that sunshine and warmth! The Summer Solstice will happen in the Southern Hemisphere December 21, 10:04 EST. You'll have to wait until 2009 for your Winter Solstice - June 20 23:59 UT (Universal Time.) Summer Solstice Blessings to all of you!

Tags: gaiaholiday, feel the joy of the Solstice Turning, Light, Hope, Joy, Ancient Ancestors, Feel the Earth, Summer Solstice in the South

When do you most love coming home?

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 10:55:42 GMT

Going Home

Everyone agrees
With a sort of empty sandpaper sadness
That an adult
Just cannot go home again
Everything there has changed
And so have you
Everything looks the same
Seems the same,
But like a jigsaw puzzle swollen with the damp
Nothing fits now, and home just isn’t home
Anymore

Every head nods in understanding
Everyone feels the same
It seems to be universal
All understand
It is a melancholy, but well accepted fact
Each feels a brief, hollow soreness
Just below the breastbone
An ache for a world that is gone, no longer real
A place that they can never
Go again

I won’t speak a word
And I’ll lower my eyes
To cover the deep gold shine
For soon,
Though I have swollen the river of time
With more than fifty years,
I will pack up my packages
And I will
Go home

Home
Where it has never been static, and so has always changed
Home
That is ever the same
Home
Where I fit the minute I walk in the door
As though I had never walked out
Fluid and flowing in a ceaselessly changing pattern
That remains forever constant
There is no chasm here, there is not even a chink
My path to this doorway is seamless and solid

In the blackest night
In the roughest storm
A light is always burning
In this haven on the hill
Retreat, refuge
From a world that can be violent
Ugly and so unkind
Here there is still
Shelter, sanctuary
In the light of a deep, patient, unconditional
Love

And if
Someday
The house is gone, the walls folded away
The windows nothing but wind
Keening sharp and piquant around the little hill
I will still hear the calling . . .
Come home . . .
Come home . . .
And I will go

Finding everything changed
And everything exactly the same
The light will still be shining
Deep and patient
From the heart that has loved me
Utterly unconditionally
All of my life
This is a light called ‘Family’
This is a place called ‘Forever’

I will always be able to
Go home

Then I will stand on the little hill myself
Reminiscing, remembering, recollecting
My heart lit with a deep gold love
Utterly unconditional . . .
I will smile
Stretch my arms to the sky in gratitude and bliss
And I will call the children
Home

©Edwĭna Peterson Cross

My Mother's House

Tags: QaR, home, homecoming, happiness, love

My First GAIA HOLIDAY Gift!

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 06:43:32 GMT

OOOOOOOOH! I LOVE THIS IDEA SAMME! This is my first GAIA HOLIDAY Gift. I hope that I'm doing this right. I'm going to put this here and thien link back to the
Gaia Holiday site. Here goes nofing!

Gift Certificate

I sure would like to give everyone one of these! Wouldn't we have fun choosing?
You can shop on line at F.A.O Schwarz It would be more fun, however, for us all to meet at the big store in New York City. There we can try the toys out and PLAY until we drop! We'll stay at the Plaza, just across the street. I can't wait to see what you all choose!

Bless&Bless&Bless&Bless and then Bless some more! Love & then Love!
Edwina ~ Dryad

Tags: Gaia Holiday Gift, F.A.O Schwarz Gift Certificate, TOYS!, PLAY!, First Gift, gaiaholiday

Up From the Grassroots

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 13:41:09 GMT

THE MORNING AFTER

November 3, 2004

A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not                show his head: (Romeo and Juliet Act V, scene III)

            My daughters cry this morning
            In despair
            For their faith, their work
            Was not enough for their
            Hearts are splintered from the inside
            My daughters cry this morning
            In frustration
            Because they had the courage to care
            To fight the ease of apathy
            Deny the pull of self and focus out
            They cared and worked and gave
            Then sat and watched the takers
            Win

            My daughters cry this morning
            In fear
            For their unborn children, for forests
            Slaughtered, air defiled, for
            Rights denied and Arts forgotten
            For the real horror of war
            My daughters cry this morning

            This afternoon, they wipe their tears
            And reach across the miles
            For each others hands
            It is silent, this smooth strength
            It circles round and round
            Shining, flowing molten steel

            This evening my daughter's eyes
            Begin to narrow
            Chins come up
            Bootlaces are being tugged

            Tomorrow my daughters will wake up
            Unhappy
            Determined
            Brilliant and beautiful
            Sadder and wiser, guardians of the next age
            Who will not turn away
            Tomorrow my daughters will wake up
            Fighting

            Edwina Peterson Cross
            November 3, 2004

I am always just a little bit late for everything these days. About now, I am sure everyone is at the point of gratefully forgetting an election that was nerve wreaking and frightening. And, of course, this is when I finally get my Blog on the subject finished.

I have not quite recovered from the election yet. I have an almost real moment of fear every morning when I am afraid that I dreamed the whole thing. I will admit to letting my eyes rest a little longer than necessary on the words “President Elect of the United States,” behind Barack Obama’s name. It was a long election. The eight years proceeding it were even longer.

We realized that those last eight years comprise almost all of my children’s ‘political memory’. All of my daughters voted in their first presidential election in 2000. My eldest daughter, a Sophomore in college at the time, split a bottle of champagne with about twenty friends to celebrate Al Gore’s victory. They hoisted their thimble full of bubbly in a toast to the future and went to bed. After all, it was midweek and they had classes in the morning. They woke up to find what would turn out to be the beginning of a nightmare. Everything was different than what they had thought; different than what it should have been. My daughters have been fighting since the day after they cast their first vote.

The hardest thing for me during these years has been the apathy and lethargy that seemed to over take my own generation. Not here at Gaia, certainly, but in many other areas, I found people my own age doing a lot of shrugging. Or making a lot of noise about hopelessness without doing anything to try and restore that hope. The children I knew, who became young adults during this time, kept fighting for what they believe in - fighting hard and never letting up - while a lot of those of us who ought to know better surrendered to despair and gave in to the darkness. I have had plenty of my own moments of both depression and despair and I know they are in no way over.

I had one acquaintance who became very fond of the word ‘Armageddon.’ Armageddon was constantly looming; and everything brought it up from unrest in the Middle East to the weather. I noted that “Armageddon” is a concept which has been run through so many different incarnations that it has turned into a catch phrase and doesn’t really have a universally accepted meaning. I’ve heard it used as a noun, a verb, even an adjective. The ‘Armageddon’ in Revelations probably happened as the Roman army assaulted Jerusalem in AD 67. World War I was routinely called “Armageddon” before World War II. She replied, “I understand Revelations is quite difficult to understand. I haven’t ever read it.” This from a very vocal Christian who routinely used the word to describe why hope was futile. I nearly died!

I am haunted by the vision of James Watt, who as Secretary of the Interior under Ronald Regan based his approach of environmental management on the fact that the imminent return of Christ would make long range management unnecessary. There is debate on his statement to Congress that Environmentalism was a hindrance to faith since Christ would not come until the last tree was felled. Whether or not he made that statement at that time, he said the same thing in many other situations. He was my husband’s boss in the Washington Office. He said “Environmentalist” as if it were a dirty word. There are still sudden huge clear cuts in the forests of Oregon that are his legacy. Fly over the state and you can see them gaping like wounds in carpet of green. He really wanted to get his hands on the redwoods of Northern California, seeking to lift logging restrictions in National Forest’s and preserves. He thought even the idea of protecting trees was a joke. During a March 1991 dinner event organized by the Green River Cattlemen's Association in Wyoming, Watt said, "If the troubles from environmentalists cannot be solved in the jury box or at the ballot box, perhaps the cartridge box should be used." In a 2001 interview, Watt applauded the Bush administration energy strategy and said their prioritization of oil drilling and coal mining above conservation is just what he recommended in the early 1980s."Everything Cheney's saying, everything the president's saying - they're saying exactly what we were saying 20 years ago, precisely ... Twenty years later, it sounds like they've just dusted off the old work." Indeed. I am haunted by the ghost of James Watt and he isn’t even dead.

At one time there was a satire on the 23rd Psalm circulating the internet. “Bush is my Shepherd.” It was a sad, but true, cleverly written, well delivered satire. It happened to hit my e-mail box the same day as a Group Message from a Yahoo-Group. It was September of 2005, right after Hurricanes Katrina and Rita had hit the southeastern part of the United States. Responding to a call for aid and prayers for the people of New Orleans and the Texas Gulf, one member of the group, in Canada, had written a long, virulent message urging other members of the group not to send aid, even prayers, because the people of the United States did not deserve it. Her ‘reasons’ were all, directly, George W. Bush. Based on several policy decisions and a lot of negative personality traits, she very seriously told the members of the group not to pray for the people of New Orleans because the “Arrogant Americans” deserved to die. When I read “Bush is my Shepard” immediately after, with it’s tone of negativity and pessimism, even though it was true and really quite witty and sharp . . . I saw red . . . with a few wandering traces of white and blue. Below is the original and the answer I wrote.

The only part that is really news worthy is the line that reads: “For in my country we have a voice. In my country there is a choice. And 2008 will come.” It was something we said to each other quite often during those long eight years. “Keep the faith. 2008 will come.”

My father was a history and geography professor. He was also a nationally recognized public speaker on the broad subject “Americanism.” He spoke on the unique governmental system, the working of ‘checks and balances’ and the functions of each branch as well as the history of government and the rights and responsibilities of citizens. For over fifteen years he conducted a unique program called “Voters Awareness” in the western United States. He and my mother went into High Schools and during day long workshops, taught the senior class, who were about to vote for the first time, about their rights and responsibilities as voting citizens. The high statistics for first year voter turn out in the areas where he conducted his program were staggering.

My father taught me that no form of government is perfect, but that what we have works because the mechanics for change are built in. When the people see something is wrong, we are able to change it. It doesn’t mean we necessarily will - witness 2004. The process is often capricious and erratic. Sometimes it is so capricious that it is downright terrifying - and I don’t have to mention any names for you to know what I mean. It was THAT frightening. But the system does give us the opportunity for change.

I have to admit, eight years is a long, long time to feel like there is a bull loose in your china closet and things looked very dark to me in November of 2004 when I wrote “The Morning After.” But 2008 did come and brought with it both change and hope. President Obama has an uphill battle ahead, but he hit the ground running and I have to admit, I am delighted to watched him run. My father taught me to love my country, it was one of the most important things in his life. Like Natalie Maines of the Dixie Chicks, I have been embarrassed by the President of my Country. Like Michelle Obama, it’s been a long time since I was proud of the entire outfit.

We have a family story in which I, at about the age of three, inform an adult at a 4th of July parade not to let the flag touch the ground. “That is my Daddy’s flag.” I said. I still feel the same way. My Daddy almost died defending the country he loved. He worked hard his entire life to protect the freedom and liberty that he held sacred; he did everything he could possibly do to leave his country better than he found it, as a legacy for the future. I am extremely proud to be able to watch his Grandchildren doing the same.

My kids have never stopped actively working for change - from that rude awakening in November of 2000 when they discovered that Al Gore was not the President Elect, to today. There has not been a week go by without something coming through our shared e-mail that pertained to this work. I have always thought that I was politically active. In the last eight years, I have learned how wrong I was! It takes a lot of time, effort and commitment to nourish a country from the grass-roots up, but it can be done. I have watched it and been as much a part as my energy level would allow. When there was a bill before congress that impacted our lives and concerns, they knew about it. They alerted each other to write Congressional Representatives, and they actually did it - using snail mail, email and their ever present cell phones. I, personally, am still working on my letter of protest regarding the stolen votes in Florida . . . in 2000 . . . it’s at about 200,000 words now, but I’m almost done . . . (((Hi Jena! You are next Martha! :-)))

When the preservation societies, the local Woman’s shelter, the small theaters, the galleries, the libraries needed special help, they would pass the word. Those in the bigger cities joined in rallies and protests, then sent photographs for the rest of us to share. It is amazing. They take pictures with their telephones and many of them can post them to the internet with that same phone. We sometimes see the pictures immediately after they happened. They share ways to shop, buy and live more green. During the time that the opposition tried to make a big deal out of Barack Obama’s middle name, the girls all adopted it as their own middle name and put it into their internet signatures. My favorite was Rachel the Rabbi’s daughter with Hussein tucked in the middle of her seven Jewish names. My eldest child has been very shy her entire life. Her vocation has taught her skills for working with people, and though she is an eloquent professional now, I know that my little girl who was too shy to use the telephone is still in there. Her grandmother and I bought all her Girl Scout cookies because she just could not make herself sell them. She tried. She always tried. This fall I watched her go off dressed to the nines, sporting Obama buttons on both lapels, to knock on doors in the most staunchly Right city in Southern Oregon. One of those places where they think Republicans are left wing radicals. In a parking lot, you hear people discussing your bumper stickers and decide it’s not safe to get in the car. You know? She went to remind people to vote and to ask them to vote for Barack Obama. She had three different women whisper, "I'm voting for Obama, but don't tell my husband!" My daughter went again and again. The day before the election the Democratic Central Committee called to say she had certainly done her duty, but they needed canvassers for that one, last push. There was still a small section of the city that hadn’t been covered. She covered it. She is the bravest person I know. I want to be just like her when I grow up. She is my hero.

It took a while for the girls to find each other when the results were final. One of them was in Mexico. They didn’t find the one in Africa until morning PST - and whatever time it was in Africa. They are all in different cities now, no two in the same place. When they finally all reached each other it was different than they had expected. The feeling was not confetti flying in the air and champagne corks popping. They were quiet, tremendously relieved and deeply glad. Instead of a feeling of wild euphoria, what they felt was awe. They were all aware of the immense milestone in human history they had helped to roll. There was a true feeling that they were witness a kind of miracle. I said to them what my fifth grade teacher said to my class after we watched Dr. Martin Luther King give his, “I have a dream” speech. “You are seeing the future.” And I added, “The Dream comes closer to reality.”

Along with the moments of wonder there was also the feeling that a major battle had been won and now we gear up for the rest of the war. There will still be letters to write, bills to follow, grass-roots to be watered. A key piece of legislation was lost in California; some of my kids were already out protesting the day after the election. This is how it goes. From the grass roots up. Working. Paying attention, staying aware. And, as always, staying connected and supporting each other in everything they do. There is still a long way to go. Unfortunately, bigotry and prejudice did not die on the night of November 4th. But change can and will come if we work for it . . .Tomorrow, once again, my daughters will wake up fighting.

©Edwĭna Peterson Cross

The he 23rd Qualm:

1. Bush is my shepherd; I dwell in want.
2. He maketh logs to be cut down in national forests.
3. He leadeth trucks into the still wilderness.
4. He restoreth my fears.
5. He leadeth me in the paths of international disgrace for his ego's sake.
6. Yea, though I walk through the valley of pollution and war, I will find no exit, for thou art in office.
7. Thy tax cuts for the rich and thy media control, they discomfort me.
8. Thou preparest an agenda of deception in the presence of thy religion.
9. Thou anointest my head with foreign oil. My health insurance runneth out.
10. Surely megalomania and false patriotism shall follow me all the days of thy term,
11. And my jobless child shall dwell in my basement forever.

(I am not actively political . Glad I'm not having any more children.)

BUSH IS NOT MY SHEPHERD
For I made a different decision in the voting booth
I am an American. I have the right of dissent

I AM Actively Political!
Every choice I make, every penny I spend is ‘Political’
I make choices with care and know where my penny is going
I dwell in Ashland, in Jackson County, in Oregon,
Where I actively work each day plying that right
At the grass roots, in the local council seats,
In the county commissions, in the state assembly
I prepareith, even now, in the face of my enemies
For in my country we have a voice
In my country there is a choice
And 2008 will come

And so I fight
I fight every log that falls
I fight for education, the welfare of children and the arts
I fight to stop AIDS, world hunger, violence against women
I fight for peace
I stay aware
I know what is going on
It isn’t easy, it is hard work,
I write to congressmen and senators. I give money. I walk when I can.
My generation of American’s stopped an unjust war
We can save our trees
We can save our arts
We can save our educational system
We can wage peace and better our world
But not by sitting on our assets

Yea, though I walk through the valley of pollution and war, I will try to change it
My children have never known anything but recycling and ecology
My town is prosperous, green and clean
I will actively work everyday toward change
That will allow all of the world to someday be the same
I supportith the politicians who wage peace
Who value humanity, education and the arts
Who seek to save the earth
National, state and local
I seekith them out
I knowith their names
I lickith their envelopes and stuffith their mailings

I supportith my values at the font of their springs
I volunteerith my time, I givith my money, I donate my work,
I have more that is better and costs less
Than most of the world
I enjoy freedoms that to some are unimaginable
I will not bow my head beneath what is wrong
For the system under which I live
Gives me the right to fight

I raiseith up a generation of American’s who care
A large, gifted circle of young men and women
To whom art is life, ecology a byword of existence
And peace something they will never stop seeking
They are the future
Those children you are glad you will not have will be theirs
They will never stop working and fighting to effect any change
That will make the world more beautiful, safe and free for the children
They will bring into it, and all the others
Who dwell on this majestic, spinning, bluegreen spaceship
They are discouraged, they are frightened, but
They are not whiners, takers or slackers
They are fighters
They are politically active and very aware
They do charity work
They volunteer
They send $10.00 to Oxfam and to ‘One’
Because $10.00 is all they have right now
They ply their professions with passion
One day they will have more than $10.00 to give,
And they will still be giving;
Giving of their money, their time, their talents, their souls.
They will dwell in my heart forever

They are Americans
So am I
Proud does not mean arrogant
That is a stereotype
We will not wear
We are angry
We are not complacent
We are the minority
But we have been gifted
With the right
To effect change
And that,
We will
Never
Surrender

©Edwĭna Peterson Cross

Three of my paintings were sold in a silent auction to support the Oregon Shakespeare Festival AIDS Awareness Daedalus Project to the tune of $225+ each. I am very proud of this! For Art to be able to speak for change and assist those in need is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

I adore this photograph. The words were on a T-shirt I bought my daughter when she was about ten. She wore it into tatters. The words go well with the incredible photo.

A line from a song by Jerry Jeff Walker, entitled Django's Lullaby which he wrote for his son, who is just the same age as mine. I have never heard this song, particularly this line, without it bringing tears. For me, it is a constant prayer. I pray for my son, your daughter, every one's child, every where on the earth.

Quite remarkably, I think, the Celtic knot on the lower part of the picture is called a "Taran Cross" which is my son's name - first and last. Sort of amazing.

Make a World That is Safe for My Son

Amen.

Tags: Rosa Parks, Elizabeth Eckford, Martin Luther King, Barack Obama, The Dream, Someday Our Children May Fly, Change from the Grassroots Up, Make a World the is Safe for My Son

I Have a Dream ~ Yes We Can!

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 08:45:38 GMT

I want to thank Val for this Blog. I wrote most of it in a letter to her and then decided I needed to put it here as well. Thank you Val for the loan of the beautiful picture of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., which is headed on in your photos as “One of my Heros.” He is one of mine too. This Blog is about heroes.

I Have a Dream

I was walking through Val’s Blog a few days ago when I found one of the best photographs of Dr. Martin Luther King that I have ever seen. The first thing I noticed was just that it is beautiful. It shows his great spirit, as well as a vulnerability you don't often see. I loved this because it reminded me that even though he has become mythic in a way, he was only a man. This makes his incredible vision and accomplishments so much more meaningful. It reminds me of the saying: "If not me? Who? If not now? When?” Dr. King heard those words and not only listened to them, but acted on them. He dedicated his life to them. He gave his life for them.

I have often thought, these past months, how proud and deep heart glad Dr. King would be to see the accomplishments of Barack Obama. No matter what happens in November, Barack Obama has made history, has carried Dr. King's dream farther than anyone in 1963 would have ever dreamed possible. I grew up in a country which still had separate drinking fountains and bathrooms for white and black people. I routinely heard people say things like, “act like a white man” when they meant to be civilized. When children counted out “enee-menee-miney-moe,” it wasn’t a tiger that was caught by the toe. Both my school and my parents taught us that was wrong and when we counted we counted to the tiger. No one else did, however, and when other children heard us doing it, they made fun of us. I’m not that old, it hasn’t been that long.

I saw an interview with Obama, it was 60 minutes I believe. The Interviewer said that during the Democratic convention there just hadn’t been any mention made of his skin, his color, his race. Barack smiled and said, "I think people noticed." He went on to say that he was very proud to be the first African American candidate to stand in this position, but that it just wasn't't the most important thing. He said, however, that to honor the occasion he had closed his remarks at the convention by quoting from Dr. King. Then he said, "I wouldn't't be here without him."

I also have to note that the Interviewer said “the first black man.” When Obama replied his words were the gender neutral “The first African American candidate.” They always are. A big difference? As an automatic assumption, yes, a very big difference. An indication that hopefully many things can change on an intrinsic level. I have to admit that I smile every time I hear Patrick Stewart’s voice announce the mission of the Star Trek Enterprise “To boldly go where no ONE has gone before.” He sits on the word just a little and I have to love him for it. What difference does it make? Again, a great deal, particularly if you are part of the half of humanity thoughtlessly discounted by the original version.

Things can change. Barack Obama is not just an icon of this change, neither was Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. They are people whose courage and commitment have changed our country, our world for the better. Even if Barack Obama does not win this election, he will have made a huge difference in history and in the future as well. Imagine how much more he will be able to influence our future, which will someday be history, as the President of the United States. Not only because he will be the first African American President, but because of all the other changes he will bring in a time when the United States of America is crucially in need of change. One of the network commentators reported hearing one Delegate at the Democratic Convention say to another: “For all my children and grandchildren. I was here on the day America Changed.” Let the change continue and expand, it is so desperately needed.

This is a poem I wrote quite a while ago. I checked back through my Blog and I have posted it before. Two years ago, on Martin Luther King Day, I put it up with a different feeling than I have today. The “why” the poem asks again and again was still unanswered then, still just hanging there, still aching. I never expected Barack Obama when this poem was written, nor even two years ago when I included it in my Blog here on the day that honors Dr. King. My fifth grade teacher evidently did, however, when he told us, after we had watched Dr. King’s speech: “You have seen the future.”

President Barack Obama will not answer the "why" of my poem, but he will take us forward towards a time that the question will no longer need to be asked. Maybe, someday, it will only be a sad part of our history and have nothing to do with our present or our future.

Yes We Can!

Skin

When I was very young,
I did not know
that the color of skin
mattered to anyone.
I did not know
that it caused wars
or provoked hatred.
I did not know that skin made
one person look at another
and perceive them as ‘other.’
I did not know that skin was how
some identified ‘brother’ and ‘sister’
“us” as opposed to “them.”
When I was very young
skin was not such an important
thing.

My classmates spoke Hindi, Spanish, Afrikaans,
Arabic, French, British and Brooklynese. They
were Navajo and Japanese; Californian and Canadian;
Iranian, Iraqi and Idahoan. They came from Nigeria,
Nebraska and Nepal; from Austria and Austin; from Turkey and
Toronto, from Salt Lake City, New York City, Mexico City
and the other side of town. Our parents were academicians,
and we were experiments. In our miniature Ivory Tower, we
played. We bickered. We laughed. We whined. We sang.
We danced. We painted. We learned. We created. And skin was not
such an important thing.

                                        ~*~

When I was very young,
the one thing that I did know about skin,
was that my own
was in arrears.
I never thought of my skin
as being any color at all,
I knew only
that it was
not-brown.

I knew that it should be brown,
or should turn brown,
was supposed to become brown,
but that it wasn’t, didn’t, wouldn’t.
The luckiest began that way, the rest
were baked by the long barefoot summers
of childhood slowly to cinnamon,
softly to sepia, leisurely to olive,
but I remained the same. Color below zero,
year-round winter skin, negative pigment,
not-brown

Eternally, either
not-brown
or
blistered scarlet;
screeching fire engine red,
endless nights spent nauseated and crying,
shrouded with wash clothes
that my mother soaked
again, and again in ice water.
The brilliant, burning sun of summer
caught beneath my stretched skin;
trapped and bursting backwards,
rays of scorching, shrieking heat that
seared and sanded every nerve until it screamed.

Once the anguish of the heat had passed,
I was rubbed carefully
With Pacquins lotion and the
viscous goo that oozed
from my mother’s aloe plant,
forced to wear long sleeves
in the sweltering, shimmering summer heat.
During the perilous hours
Between eleven a.m. and two p.m.,
while everyone else swam, skated,
and ran wild under the broiling sun,
I played alone in the long green shade
of the front porch, telling my dolls
in conspiratorial whispers:
“Only mad dogs and Englishmen
go out in the midday sun . . .”

When at last the flaming skin turned
from red to gray, it peeled away
in long, pale strips, which were totally gross,
yet quite fascinating.
For a few days, I was everyone’s favorite,
slightly disgusting, past time.
I peeled, healed, and returned to
not-brown.
Until the next time.

                                 ~*~

And we grew older,
and The Real World besieged
our Ivory Tower’s walls. It screamed from
every newspaper, it shrilled from
the television screen. Socratic Debate, Method of Elenchos,
they taught us with questions. Socratic Method,
Elenchos Debate. They taught us to question.
They explained about segregation. About separate
schools, buses, drinking fountains.
Baffled, we looked at each other and we asked them
“Why?”
They gave us historical facts, they proposed queries
about geographic and cultural parameters, but no one,
no one ever answered that
question.
We learned that the color of skin mattered.
We learned that the color of skin mattered
immensely to some.
We learned that the color of skin mattered
out of proportion, to a degree that was absurd,
to an extent that seemed insane.
Baffled, we looked at each other, we looked
at skin that was
every shade from white to ebony.
None of us were the same color.
We didn't
understand
and we asked them
“Why?”
They gave us cultural facts, they proposed queries about
historic parameters, but no one,
no one ever answered that
question.

                                           ~*~

Not quite as long or as pastoral as childhood’s,
early-adolescent summers were spent ‘Laying Out,”
long brightly colored beech towels
on the hot, slanting shingles of someone’s roof.
We talked about boys, read aloud from magazines,
drank warm coke and slathered each other’s backs
with cocoa butter.
We sprayed our bodies with fine mists
of water and olive oil, flipping ourselves
like burgers on a grill, every fifteen minutes.
Striving, straining, sweltering, sweating, seeking
The Perfect Tan.

Still long before the advent of sun-block
with SPF-Anything, I sat cross legged,
covering my shoulders with another towel.
I wore a big, wide brimmed hat,
I brought an umbrella and everyone laughed.

Aware of my skin now; so aware that I
was on a first name basis with each blemish,
every freckle and flaw.
The perfect 36, 24, 34 that filled my bikini
was in no way perfect, for every inch was
not-brown.
When arms were held out, placed together
to ascertain who had ‘The Best Tan,’
I put my arms behind my back.
“Look how WHITE you are!” they’d exclaim.
Teenagers excel at insensitivity.

And they were wrong.
I looked, and I wasn’t.
I wasn’t white.
I wasn’t any color.

I learned desperate measures.
Using a sun-lamp, I’d burn on purpose,
soak the reddening skin with
apple-cider vinegar, which stung
like a razor’s edge, but produced
the deep, dark, long coveted, positive color:
BROWN.
I smelled like edu du tossed salad and
like Cinderella, I had to be home
by midnight, when the brittle skin would begin
to fissure, crack, flay and peel
often leaving me bleeding underneath.

                                              ~*~

I was born during litigation of Brown vs. the Board of Education.
I began school at my small Ivory Tower the same week that Elizabeth Eckford walked through the doors of Little Rock High School.
On the third day of the fifth grade, Wednesday, August 28th, 1963, on an elsewhere-yet-unheard-of classroom television set, I watched Dr. Martin Luther King give his “I Have a Dream” speech, as it happened. My teacher told us we had seen the future.
Five years later, I watched Dr. King fall to the floor of the balcony where he stood and I knew that he would die.
There was no one else there, so I asked the empty air: “Why?”

Why did he die?
Did he die for the perfumed jungle flowers of Africa?
Did he die for the stench of the Birmingham jail?
Who would take up the sword
the Peaceful Warrior did not carry?
Would anyone remember the purpose of his life?
Or only the reality of his death?
Would they remember the radiance of his vision?
Or only the color of his skin?

And I . . .
Am I who I am because the Nordic sun
dwells cold and dark for months each year?
Does my substance lie hidden in the colorless, frozen Scandic snow?
Does fate hold me bound,
because my ancestors sailed a frigid, ice spumed sea,
instead of dancing beneath a blooming tropic sun?

Who is permitted to speak of beauty?
What face is it allowed to wear?
Has discrimination died or has it rebounded?
Will we ever hear it’s death knell,
Or only an echo of it’s abiding birth?
To whom is The Dream sanctioned?
To whom will it be denied?

And in all the heart of heaven,
Why should it matter?
This color of skin?
Why should it ever have mattered?
Why?

No one,
no one has ever answered that
question.

                                           ~*~

        He said my skin was the color of alabaster,
        alabaster filled with moonlight . . .
        and I cried



©Edwina Peterson Cross

HELP MAKE 'THE DREAM' COME TRUE. WE ARE AT A CROSS ROADS WHERE WE HAVE THE ABILITY TO TAKE A GIGANTIC STEP FORWARD. IT IS NOT ONLY BECAUSE OF SKIN COLOR, THOUGH THERE IS NO DENYING THIS IS A HUGE, HISTORICAL MOMENT ON THAT FRONT. IT IS BECAUSE OUR COUNTRY IS IN A GREAT DEAL OF DANGER. IN THE FACE OF THAT DANGER, WE ARE BEING OFFERED A CANDIDATE OF INTELLIGENCE, TENACITY AND, MOST IMPORTANT TO ME, AUTHENTICITY AND ETHICS. EVERY AMERICAN HAS ONE VOTE. EVERY ONE OF THOSE VOTES COUNT. MAKE YOURS COUNT FOR A FUTURE THAT CAN BE SAFE, PRODUCTIVE AND BEAUTIFUL FOR OUR CHILDREN AND OUR GRANDCHILDREN. LET HISTORY LOOK BACK AND SAY, "THEY DID THEY RIGHT THING."

ObamaMama

Tags: Heros, "Yes We Can!, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Barack Obama, Change, Skin, I'm an Obama Mama!

Oil Paint and Migraine

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 20:00:03 GMT

While I have been busy being sick again, I have been playing with a part of my paint program that I don't usually use - the oils. They are slow and hypnotic and give me a visceral feeling that is also almost physical like they are pouring color and smoothing real wet paint somewhere behind my eyes, or in the back of my throat, inside my wrists . . .

I can't paint anything with them yet, really. They are so big and splooshy and I can't control the edges. Maybe I won't ever use them to do my regular painting, but now, while I can't really control the pen anyway, nor concentrate, I am enjoying the colors, the feel, the flowing. It is, as I noted, very much a process rather than product endeavor right now, which is probably exactly what I need.

As I messed with them, I began wondering about the use of space - again. There is a temptation to fill all the space with the beautiful flowing colors. I wondered if I left white, if it should be white paint so that it also had some of the feeling, the texture - or not? Below my very elementary (that's me. Primary. Nursery) squiggling. Right now, it doesn't want to be anything else.

White1

white2

white3

White-paint

How

meditation

chakra1

Tags: Oil Paint & Migraine, exploring, color, space, process vs product, meditation

Happy Belated Birthday to Zephyr ~ September Breakfast

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Sun, 07 Sep 2008 15:39:38 GMT

Several days late, this is a Natal Day Surprise for Zephyr, whose Birthday comes just after mine. My Daddy used to call me “September Morn” as I was born on the first day of this month, by just a few minutes. I asked my Daddy once, if September 1st was “September Morn” what was September 2nd? He thought about it a minute and then said. “September Breakfast.”

I haven’t ever met anyone before who was born on September Breakfast! Happy Late Birthday Zephyr!

I love the name “Zephyr.” I like winds of all kinds, gales and gusts, and sou’easters, blows an squalls, breezes and headwinds and monsoons and tempests and cross winds (which, obviously, belong to me.)

I think I’ve always liked Breezes and Zephyr’s best, probably because there is something dancing about them. The definition of a Zephyr is a wind that is “refreshing.” Next time you are working hard and think you can’t make it and just when you are about to give up - in comes your “Second Wind”. I like to think of that as a Zephyr too. “I’m ready to go again, I’ve caught my Zephyr and I’m off!”

I have been looking for this poem to share with Zephyr for some time. I had an epiphany in the middle of the night last night and when I got up and looked - there it was! I love those midnight epiphanies.

I wrote this poem for my cousin and best friend Jacque Lynn Bell. Lynn is a professional dancer who has traveled the world exploring, dancing and living deeply. She has recently begun to settle into earth a little for a magnificent new dance. We are the same age, 55, Water-Snakes together, and she is very busy right now mothering three new come breezes ages two, three and five. It is lucky dancing keeps one so young! As does living life as a refreshing wind, I believe.

I thought this poem would fit for our Zephyr quite well. I know Lynn would recognize another ‘Wind that dares to know itself’ and want to share.

Zephyr

Sing, soft sun washed wind
Into the hush of a dry grey world
Sing colors to the pale morning sky
Paint the dawn with a reflection of your song
Fresh and new as a cut crystal breeze
Breathe movement into the dark still earth
Whisper the world to dance

Shape each cloud’s feathery flight unique
The twist of each tree it’s own

Every second of foam blown from
The rivers lips
Different from the last
Into a world that would be set as stone
Blows a wind that dares to know itself

Fly free clear streaming singing wind
Taste the corners of the earth
Calling sweet green from a mountain top
Sighing through a jungle rain
Melting into the weave of change
Drinking tomorrow from a cup of joy

Sing . . .
Soft sun washed wind
The beauty of your movement
An exquisite ache
The bracing of your presence
A clean breath of truth
The center of your being
an exhalation
of inspiration
This flat world so needs your song . . .

Sing

©Edwina Peterson Cross

Since I was a very little girl, I have loved the poem, “Who Has Seen the Wind?” by Christina Rossetti.

WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND ?
~ Christina Rossetti ~

ho has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling
The wind is passing thro'

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads
The wind is passing by.

I truthfully used to spend hours sitting on my swings staring intently into the back yard, in order to learn how to actually see the wind, as well as the things it dances with. I figured that maybe Christina Rossetti couldn’t see it, but I was going to. Besides, she up and says right in the poem that the guy on 1st has seen it . . . why not me? :-P I love the winds dance partners, my favorites, of course, being trees, but I also love cloud dancing. This is a little painting I did of a place I love - Lake Dillon in Colorado. After I had finished a fairly placid lake scene - I let the wind dance around with the clouds in a rather unorthodox manner. What do you suppose an orthodox cloud looks like anyway?

Zephry Dance Over Lake Dillion

Who knows where these winds live & what kind of wind they are?
Without looking them up?
WITH looking them up! :-)

Snow Eater
Harmattan
Foehn
Chinook
Samiel or Simoon
Doldrums

Who Has Seen The Wind

This painting that I did to Christina Rossetti's poem is my husband's favorite of all my paintings. Interesting, I think.

Did I get all the way through this without spelling Zephyr wrong?

Tags: Happy B'lated BD Zephyr, September Breakfast, All Kinds of Winds, Wind Dancing, Who Has Seen the Wind?, Christina Rossetti, Unorthodox Clouds, Where Do These Winds Live?

ARE THERE NO ONIONS IN PARIS?!?

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Thu, 04 Sep 2008 00:39:24 GMT

ARE THERE NO ONIONS IN PARIS?!

Gracious Goodness! and all other alliterative ecphonesis turned inside out! I am about to post the second Blog in one day. The one this morning was enjoyable to do. This one is necessary. You see, I have done something tremendously treacherous and I must try, somehow, to redeem myself.

I didn’t really do it on purpose, it was more a matter of last minute showmanship. A bit of unnecessary slapdash upon the title line of a message to an unsuspecting and trusting soul.

I sent a message to Micky D. and headlined it “Liver and Onions” when in truth, the entire message was about liver; cow’s, calf’s, David Crosby’s X3, mine . . . There, in truth, was nothing in the entire message having anything to do with onions. I admit it. I was showboating the subject line. I went and whetted poor Micky’s apatite for ascalonicum with, evidently, no way to sate, satiate, surfeit or otherwise save himself from ONION HUNGER. It’s drastic. The poor man is threatening to: “wranting & wraving & gnashing my teeth, in Irascible ire, unless you provide the onions, I may even seethe & froth at the mouth a little( for extra dramatic effect.) Dramatic, INDEED.

I immediately ran to the garden and began digging frantically, plucking the paper skinned wonders from the good black Oregon earth where they grow so fat and fine. When I had a respectable satchel, I hied quickly for the highway and began desperately trying to flag down an airplane bound for Paris. It’s odd. Not a one has stopped. I must admit that I even resorted to drastic measures in an effort to save my friend.

SAVE MICKEY!

And I do mean DRASTIC. Do you have any IDEA what a horrific cliché this is?! Disgusting! But I hate to think of a grown man crying. (ouch.)

I’m going back to the highway Micky . . . somehow, someway I will get on a plane for Paris with my sack of succulent sustenance and I will save you! Somehow.

In the meanwhile, let me try a little remedy that I think they use on me. If we can’t make it better, lets make it worse and see if you don’t bounce out of it . . . or something. My own files yielded three (COUNT THEM! 3!) Pieces regarding the spicy snack. I’ve even got paintings! YES! Honestly, I know it is hard to believe, but I have done a painting of onions. Perhaps it will see the Mickster through until I make it to Paris with my reeking remedy.

To use this first piece, I am going to have to ~ regretfully ~ introduce you to one of my . . . less elegant alter-ego’s. This is a pen name. I hesitate to call him a 'nom de plume' which sometimes is "Literary Double." Old Foister is about a Quadruple-By-Pass rather than a double. He certainly isn't the one I would choose to be my "double." Still, if you know me, you know that none of my pen names exist in a vacuum; they have to have a personality. This one is *quite* a personality. It is with a surplus of superfluity and a excess of embarrassment that I introduce you to

Himself
the Lord of Misrule
Ace of Anarchy
Duke of Disorder

~ Foister Von Ripster ~

This particular poem was penned by Von Ripster on an occasion that was almost the antiphrasis of Mickey’s. A fellow Bard by the name of Dilyn detests onions. This was caused by working his way through college at Pizza Hut. For the first two years all they would let him do was cut onions. And cut onions. And cut onions. Dilyn no longer cares for onions. Foister ~ being Foister ~ likes to take any occasion to torment anyone particularly if he can do it with words. Below we have him doing just that. As the subject became “The Dreaded O” the Bards all seemed to lose every scrap of ethics and propriety; soon puns were flying fast, loose and . . .vile.

The Dreaded "O"
Onion’s Progress

~ Foister Von Ripster ~

For Friend Dilyn
May You Never Be Without That
Rotund Rascal You Love So!
{ Would That Be The Dreaded Onion, or I?}

Such a small thing, full of layers
To turn us all to vile players
Oh! The punsters we’ve become
Because of Ascalonicum!!
Poor Dilyn’s nightmarish fears
From a haunting vale of tears
Soon we’ll hear the poor man screaming
Chopping ‘til his eyes are streaming
Gashing, slashing, cleave and cut
Foul memories of Pizza Hut!

And Bards who once were all so chic
Now laugh until they start to leek
Poor fellow must be so distraught
They all have gone eschalot!
Wicked night-mare’s turned to stallions
Distinguished Bards are now rap-scallions

Vidalia, Bermuda, Italian red
Like a noxious wind, the scourge is spread
The evil of this baneful fruit
Goes all the way down to the root!
Save your eyes from scent that stings
Just say ‘NO!” to onion rings!
Like a warning tale from old John Bunyan
Damnation, hell . . . the cursed ONION!

ONION

The following story was my way of trying to repent for my alter ego’s nastiness. I know. I know. It gets confusing. Don’t worry about it, just read the story. It is for Dilyn and for all the “middle children” out there, who like me, sometimes just go through the cracks.
And especially for Mickey . . .

M*I*C*K*E*Y* O*N*I*O*N*

Sing with me boys and girls . . . Micky Onion, Mickey Onion, Forever let us hold our Banners High! High! High! HIGH!

M*I*C*..........................See you REAL soon!
K*E*Y*.........................Y? 'Cause I've got ONIONS!
O*N*I*O*N*

Hang on Mickey! One of these Airplanes has GOT to stop soon! . . . . Meanwhile . . .

A Story about Stars . . .

A Story of the Pleiades

~ The Legend of the Pleiades ~

Once Upon a Time in a land that was far, far away . . . just how faraway was this land? Well, it was further away than the corner, but not as faraway as forever. It was as distant as tomorrow, but not quite as remote as later. In this land, which lay beyond the tall blue mountains, but not behind the clouds, there lived seven sisters.

These sisters were named, Ona, Oneida, Oni, Ondrea, Onella, Onora, and Onyekachukwu. Ona was the oldest, the most practical and pragmatic. She was the best at problem solving and figuring things out. Onyekachukwu was the youngest. She was flighty and frivolous, given to giggling and telling off-color jokes that made everyone laugh. Oneida had the voice of a lark, Oni painted marvelous pictures, Onella had read all the books in the library, Onora knew everything there was to know about numbers Ondrea fell right smack dab in the middle. She was the best at . . . well come to think of it, no one really knew what Ondrea might be good at. People often forgot that Ondrea was there at all. If Ondrea had suddenly gone missing and they had counted themselves and only found six, they would have spent several puzzled moments feeling very blank because the missing name just would not appear in their heads. What did she look like after all? What color did she wear? It was hard to remember.

The answer was red. Each one of the sisters wore a different color. Their parents had thought this up as a good way to tell them apart. It would have been too, if they hadn’t kept forgetting which child they had assigned to which color. I will tell you, though you probably won’t remember either. Ona wore green, Oneida wore turquoise, Oni was always seen in yellow, Onella in pink, Onora in purple and laughing, giddy Onyekachukwu always wore orange.

Did you notice that Ondrea was missing? No one else ever did either.

Now, the most notable thing about these seven sisters, and, indeed, the point of this story, was that these seven sisters loved nothing in the world so much as onions. This enjoyment of onions was not just a preference, it was a passion; it went far beyond just a fondness or fancy and was closer to a madness or mania; an obsession that many people felt was slightly unbalanced. These seven sisters LOVED onions.

They loved green onions, red onions, purple onions, yellow onions and white onions. They loved Vidalias, Bermudas, Carzalias, Nu-Mex, Imperial, Maui, Hawaiian Hula and especially Walla Walla Sweets. These sisters loved onion soup, onion salad, onion quiche, onion sandwiches, onion rings, caramelized onions, grilled onions, barbecued onions, raw onions and everything in between. It is said that they even made onion margarita’s, but to ask you to believe that would be stretching your incredulity a bit farther than incredulity ought to stretch. It is quite true, however, that they were all fond of Gibsons.

They loved to listen to the Beatles White Album just to hear “Glass Onion” and they realized that onions had prescient powers.

"Onion skins very thin,
Mild winter coming in.
Onion skins very tough,
Coming winter very rough."

These sisters knew full well that the ancient Egyptians actually worshiped the onion, that the shape of the onion symbolized eternity to the Egyptians who buried onions along with their Pharaohs. The Egyptians saw eternal life in the anatomy of the onion because of its circle-within-a-circle structure. Paintings of onions appear on the inner walls of the pyramids and in the tombs of both the Old Kingdom and the New Kingdom. The onion is mentioned as a funeral offering and onions are depicted on the banquet tables of the great feasts. Onions were always shown upon the altars of the Egyptian gods. I’m not going to go as far as saying that these seven sisters actually worshiped onions themselves, but there were suspicious onion shaped Objects d'Art all around their house.

The greatest dream of all of these sisters was to someday become the Payson Onion Queen and rein over the Golden Onion Days. None of them ever realized this dream, however, because Far, Far Away was just too far away from Payson. Still, in due time, as the years went by, each of these seven sisters fell in love and was married. They each walked down the aisle to the sounds of Booker T and the MG’s singing “Green Onions” carrying a bouquet of those same long steamed
Green Onions. One by one, they left their parents home to set up house keeping, taking with them their onion statues, framed portraits of famous onions and samplers that they had cross stitched with such messages as:

"I will not move my army without onions!"
~ Ulysses S. Grant ~

"Life is like an onion.
You peel it off one layer at a time;
And sometimes you weep."
~ Carl Sandburg ~

"Mine eyes smell onions: I shall weep anon."
~ William Shakespeare ~

"If you hear an onion ring, answer it."
~ Anonymous ~

They also took all their favorite recipes. There was one thing that could always be said with great truth and gusto: the Onion sisters were good cooks. Each husband counted himself lucky and smiled upon by good fortune. At the beginning.

As the years went on, however, it became evident that the sisters passion for onions was not waning or weakening, but only growing stronger. All of their husbands began, in subtle ways, to become restless and discontented. They initially claimed that it had to do with being sick and tired of every meal they were served being full to brimming with onions.

They also let it be known, through insidiously dropped hints, that their unhappiness had to do with . . . well, we might as well come right out and say it: olfactory offenses. They slyly spread the rumor far and wide that they were all suffering and sad because of smells.

The sisters, of course, knew that this was piffle and poppycock; trash and twaddle; bilge, blather and balderdash. Though it was a closely guarded secret, each of these seven sisters was the possessor of the deep, hidden mystery of the Knife’s Templar. This clandestine key is known to few on earth now, but these seven sisters were all initiates of this secret sect and recipients of it’s shrouded alchemical knowledge.

You all know the story. It is told that once Woman had the unmitigated gall to assume she could handle Knowledge. Accordingly, she took a whomping big bite right out of the Onion of Knowledge. Of course she was eternally punished for her presumptuousness. She was immediately expelled from the Garden of Onion. A Great Voice was heard to speak, saying: “With weeping will she chop now. In sorrow and flowing tears, will woman bring forth the onion.”

Everyone knows this story, but not everyone knows the secret story which tells how the alchemy of tears can be altered, the vale of weeping averted, the tale that tells how an onion can be chopped without it’s sulfuric compounds being released into the air. This is hidden knowledge. This is the mystery.

This mystery, along with a specific ritual, was gifted to mankind soon after the dawn of time by Raptor Spirit, the Great Papa Falcon. It had been handed down in secret for generations upon generations. I will tell you the mystery and the secret ritual, though it’s possible I may have to kill you afterward.

The first part of the mystery is held in three words. These secret words are accomplished as the first feat. In beginning, the initiate holds The Orb toward the moon and chants these words: “Chill. The. Onion.” The initiate then does exactly this, under cover of night.

After secretly accomplishing the first feat, the second feat is begun. The initiate performing the ritual holds a knife up sidewards and lifting it carefully against their nose in salute, chants the second part of the mystery. “Never. Cut. The. Root. End!”

Firmly grasping the onion, the initiate slices slice off the tip opposite from the root end. They then slice the side of the next layer and peel back to form a handle over the root stub.

By using this ritual and remembering the mystery, the sulfuric compounds are held in check, though Knowledge be attained, the initiate will not be overcome with tears. Thank you, Oh Ancient Falcon, whose spirit still flies the skies of the Over World.

And, as for the contemptible innuendo that these husbands were discomforted, confound or chagrined because of onion breath, well that is simply stuff and nonsense. All of these sisters had grown up knowing the secret of dispelling onion breath. It wasn’t something that they broadcast far and wide, but certainly they didn’t eat all that parsley just to turn their teeth green.

No, the sad truth, in the end, was that all seven husbands were jealous. None of them would ever have admitted that they were stabbed to the heart by envy when they saw the way their wives looked upon an onion, but that, in the end, was the truth.

What happened was not meant to happen. The final outcome was not what they had planned. None of them really wanted to lose their wives, they merely wanted what husbands have wanted from time immortal: They wanted exactly what they wanted, exactly the way they wanted it, exactly when they wanted it. And what they wanted, in this case, was for their wives to give up onions. That was what was behind it all. All seven husbands really believed that their wives would come home repentant, remorseful, regretful and without onion. They expected their wives to be so penitent that none of them would ever think about another onion, touch another onion, or smile that special smile at another onion . . .

They planned it together and all struck at once. The sisters had been at their parents home celebrating their mother’s birthday. (Onions really add a whole new dimension to the concept of a Layer Cake.) At the end of the evening, when each sister arrived at her own front door, she found that front door locked. All of the locks had been changed. Each of them found a note bearing slightly differing wordings of “I’ve had it with you and your onions. Don’t come back.”

The youngest husband, married to Onyekachukwu, the youngest sister, had written “Get out and stay there!” Onyekachukwu, in her orange party dress, squinted at the note. “What a dork,” she muttered, “I already AM out.”

I repeat that the outcome that came out in the end was not at all what the husbands had planned. Despite some of them having been married for many years, these men didn’t know these women at all. Unfortunately, this is a rather common state of affairs, regardless of onions.

It didn’t take long for all seven sisters to rendevous at their parents house once again. Their father had to be forcibly disarmed and they had to feed him quite a lot of homebrew before he feel asleep still muttering dire threats that were quite sincere. Their mother was very calm as she announced quietly, “they’ll be sorry.”

“They will indeed,” sighed Ona, “as soon as they figure out that we’ve taken them at their word and we are not coming back.”
“Well, that too,” said their mother, “but I was speaking specifically about the spiders eternally crawling on their skin, the slimy creatures they will keep finding in their under shorts . . .”
“Mother!” cried Oneida, “no spells! Remember just a little while ago, you promised not to cast any more spells?”
Their mother smiled happily at a spider on the ceiling. “They can buy buckets full of Viagra if they want, it won’t do any good. It will never do any good . . .”
Ona patted her mothers hand. “That’s fine Mom. Have at it.” She addressed her sisters, “Well? Where are we going?”
“Away,” said Oni vaguely.
“Far away,” said Onella definitely.
“ . . . a galaxy far, far away,” said Ondrea.
“Yes!” laughed Onyekachukwu. “I get Han Solo.”
“I’m serious,” said Ondrea, softly.
It was suddenly completely silent around the table which held the crumbling remains of an Onion Layer Cake.

The seven men were, indeed, soon very sorry. Though they never told anyone, even each other, about the spiders, slimy things and buckets of useless Viagra, they did openly repent the way they had treated their wives. In their loneliness, they desperately sought after their wives and begged them, again and again, to come home, but it was all in vain.

Ona’s old VW bus had last been seen taking a sharp right at Orion the Hunter. Before too much longer there was a new cluster of stars blazing in the night sky. From out of that cluster, seven stars burned especially brightly; radiant, round and golden, glittering like glistening onions in the dark night sky.

There is a legend that says you should always look straight at those seven spectacular stars they call the Pleiades. You must look at them openly, frankly and honestly. The legend says that if you look directly at them without blinking, you will see colors: Ona in green, Oneida in turquoise, Oni in yellow, Onella in pink, Onora in purple and laughing, giddy Onyekachukwu eternally in orange.

Did you notice anyone missing? Neither did anyone else.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This story is for Dilyn
May he always
Be faced
With Only
Fictional
Onions
and for
Micky D.
May he find
Some real one's soon!

©Edwina Peterson Cross

And finally (FINALLY!) a serious poem that happens to have an onion in it. This is a poem I love and it does have onion significance. As my mind reached for those pieces of life ~ average, unexceptional perfection ~ that are really what life IS, the first place it lit was upon the dreaded, glorious pungent bulb. It is my mother's favorite food and, along with water-cress and lemon-lime soda the only thing she could keep down when she was carrying me. Isadora Duncan said her mother could only eat iced oysters and champagne and that was why she was who she was. And I, Dryad Child came the same way, Water Dancing long before movement is "supposed to" be felt . . . Dancing before breath . . . fed greenly on water-cress, lemon-lime soda and onions.

onion, apricot, adagio, a face turned to the light
so the shadows fall like sighs against the
cracked pavement
candles, chocolate, fingers placing spoons against
rose colored napkins in the shade of an oak tree

such things can be
for beauty’s sake alone

water
still through the rainbows of cut crystal
harp strings
fog settling into the bottom of the valley

I try to remember
Each piece that isn’t pain
Each piece whose average, unexceptional perfection
Might spell salvation

Pink satin slippers
A rosewood pen
The thick wool of a well made hat
Blood on my fingers the color of

Rain

©Edwina Peterson Cross

Tags: No Onions in Paris?!, Fraudulent Subject lines!, M*I*C*K*E*Y* D., Foister Von Ripster, nom de plume or Literary Double, Legend of the Pleiades, Water Dancing Before Birth

Cross-Curricular Egg Dancing

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 14:28:47 GMT

WHEN I WOKE UP FROM HAVING SLEEPING-BIRTHDAY-SICKNESS, I found that my little Gaia Daughter Elisa (I don't know how old she is today. Three? It changes) was making me a surprise Birthday Cake! She had an accident with the eggs.

Whoopsters

Which prompted me to say . . . .
OH! I just woke up and wandered in the kitchen. Oh. My!! ELISA!!

.................................................................................................. What lovely designs you made!

I've always had this idea that just about everything is an opportunity for teaching. This is called by some people "Spontaneous Cross-Curricular Teaching" and by others a pain in the behind. The pain part often came from teachers in other classes who were trying to teach the three R's to five year olds sitting in desks in rows with their workbooks open and did not care for my class suddenly crawling around the playground watching earth worm and moving like them, laying on their backs looking at the clouds or blowing bubbles on the floor with straws because the huge container of dish soap spilled on the floor.

This was reported to me by the mother of one of my students who was helping out in her older child's classroom. I went out to bring the kids in from recess and found that there was a tropically warm Chinook wind blowing over the playground which had been glacier for the last several months. (I better write a Blog about Chinook's . . . later)

The children had pulled their hats and mittens off, some of them had taken off their coats and they were in this warm, warm wind laughing, squealing, running, giggling and dancing like spring had suddenly arrived - come up through the frozen earth and run up their little legs like the green sap coming up a willow tree. I really expected to see them start sprouting leaves.

Back in the classroom I had a book I was going to read them and an art activity planned. I bagged them both in about 30 seconds, asked the Playground supervisor to please wait just five more minutes and ran back to the classroom for my big sack of scarves. I knew I didn't have a cord long enough to get the record player outside (yes folks. LP's. The "Vinyl" that my son so covets now.) I got my keys, pulled my car over from one parking lot to the other, put in an 8-track of Vivaldi's Four Seasons, opened all four doors of the car and cranked the stereo up to warp whatever. (I don't think anyone covets 8 tracks even as ancient artifacts.)

The Playground Supervisor was a basketball player from the University, I gave him a scarf too and . . . we danced. It is a slice of transcendental beauty in my heart, if no where else, as sweet and green as that warm Chinook wind coming down from Mount Logan like a blessing.

The parent who was in the classroom of her older child told me the teacher walked over to the window, made a very high pitched sound of derision and commented, loudly, "She is OUT of her MIND! Somebody ought to catch her and lock her up!"

My favorite part was the "somebody ought to catch her." She probably knew perfectly well that I was the Gingerbread Man.

SO. When I found Elisa's wonderful egg-scape, I started to write a comment and an entire Spontaneous Cross-Curricular Movement Activity poured out of my fingers instead. So I said to myself. "Self. I'm not sure I know how to "Blog." That's another story, but I guess I'll stick this on the Blog, since here it is and . . . it is here.

At that point in time I was joined by a number of Conceptual Companions and a lot of Faeries (some you might recognize.) A Conceptual Companion - if you don't know - is someone who comes to play who is . . . conceptual. I don't think it is polite to call people 'Imaginary', it sounds like there is something wispy about them or something.

So . . . I just gave my lesson to those C.C's and Faeries and we had a lovely time Egg Dancing. I definitely recommend it for all kind of doldrums, ho-hums and yawns. I suspect at this point that several people reading this are agreeing with the teacher who thought I ought to be locked up. It just may be true, I suppose.

If they think they can catch me, they are certainly welcome to try.

gingerbread-me

I got to the cake making party at Elisa's late because I got Sleeping-Birthday-Sickness, but it is better now and luckily I brought the TIME SWARMER. So I Swarmed back to the beginning and we had the whole egg dance BEFORE they made the cake/clay/bricks which happened yesterday, but don’t get hung up on that, LINER TIME IS A MYTH.

HERE IT COMES!......................................
Quickly now pumpkins! Take off your shoes and CAREFULLY smash up the eggs that aren't smashed up. You have to be careful, egg shells can be sharp, but what does it feel like to step on an egg? This is a yolk-golden opportunity to find out. Also a GREAT OPPORTUNITY TO EGG DANCE!!

HAVE YOU EVER SMASHED AN EGG WITH YOUR TOES? I'd tell you about it but I think you should experience it. Find a yolk that is still all together and try to pick it up with your toes. You’ve got to try it and then you can use it as a metaphor . . . “The situation was sticker than trying to pick up an egg yolk with your toes.” But you don’t get to use the metaphor if you never really tried to pick an egg yolk up with your toes. That would be a good line for a story about a HARD BOILED Detective.

After you've had fun smashing the eggs, then you can dance in the sticky egg goo. That is quite a good floor for egg dancing, actually. Be very careful because, you know, it will be very slick and the slickness will be different as you go. That is something to NOTICE. Are the white parts slideyer or the yolk parts? What happens as the dance goes on?

The picture you started with was beautiful. After dancing get your camera and search out other pictures in the slid-upon-eggs. AND you can do art about what the whole experience FELT like! Remember when you are doing this kind of art, it doesn’t need to look like what you saw, you want to paint or draw or clay or whatever about how it felt. Lets put eggs in the tempera paints at the easel! Did you know that famous artists used eggs in their paint?! Where can we find out more about that?

http://www.eggtempera.com/paint.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tempera
http://www.alessandrakelley.com/mixpaint.html
http://www.elfwood.com/farp/egg/egg.html

(Wow. One of my favorite “Teaching Questions” has turned out to be kind of dumb. Where can we find out more about that? Dah.)

Remember your picture will be ABOUT the Egg Dance, not a picture OF the Egg Dance. What did it feel like to your toes? Your nose? When it got on your clothes? What movements did your body want to make the most when you were on the eggs? Sing out all the Body Moves you remember making! What Body Parts did you use the most? Did your fingers get to dance or did your toes have all the fun? Did you really want to put your fingers in the goosh or did you not want to? What did the egg feel like when it was wet? Is that feeling really “wet?” Do you think? What word would you use to express it’s feel? Together lets see if we can get five. Ten! What did it feel like when it started to dry? Is the “egg white” really white? Is the egg yolk really yolk? Why is there an “L” in the word Yolk?! What about the egg shell? Did your toes get poked by any sharp egg shells? Sometimes people say “Walking on Egg Shells” . . . what do you think that means? How could we use the egg shells in our paintings? Could you have found a pathway through the eggs without stepping on them When you started? What kind of pathway is there now? What are some ways you could go over an egg and NOT step on it? Now think of a way no one else did. Now think of a way no one ever thought of to get over an egg before in the whole history of human’s going over eggs. What will you name your dance? If you wrote a book about eggs what would you name it? If you found an egg in your pocket, what would you name it? What if you had an egg in each pocket and one was hard boiled and one was raw? What would you do then?

Design the face that you will put on the hard boiled eggs that we will make tomorrow! Also to think about until tomorrow: Why does dye stick to egg shells? What happens when you use wax or crayons? What other ways could you decorate eggs? Is there a way to tell a boiled egg from a raw egg?

Now we are going to do our Fast Rhyme. The Conceptual Companions will have to help me do it and show it to the Gaia Friends tomorrow. OK. Sit square and get ready to think. Here come the rhymes, faster than a wink:

Stepping on eggs is very nice
I wouldn’t trade it for any price
The yolks go SQUISH
And the whites go SBLLOOOP
Some people like to put eggs in soup
I like eggs scrambled in a bowl
I like them boiled so that they will roll
I like to dye them in colors bright
And leave them for the Easter Bunny in the night
Did you think that Bunnies lay eggs
When you were very little and had short legs?
Did you think chocolate hens lay eggs of candy?
That kind of hen would come in handy!
I wish I had some hen’s in my power
Who would lay gummy worms, sweet and sour.
But that is backwards and Inside out!
It’s hen’s who eat worms, and chase them about
Those worms are NOT sour and sweet
And I don’t think I want any of those to eat!

Terrific Pacific!
We are so prolific!
At thinking up rhymes to be specific!
Yeah, us! Yeah, us! We are Rhymers
And We Rhyme Thus!

chair**********hair
door**********floor
book********* look

Someone calls out the first word, then you clap the dots and someone else needs to be ready with a rhyme on the next count. Start with ten claps. As you get better you can take the number of dots down.

Remember THE CRUSADE: RHYMES FOR ALL!! There are words in the English language that have no rhymes. No one should be left without a rhyme! the RHYMES FOR ALL CRUSADE is all about inventing words so that every word has at least one rhyme . . . without having to resort to assonance or horrific stretching rhymes such as are sometimes found in Country-Western songs. No offense to any Country-Western fans, but . . . it’s true.
So . . .
Rhyme-less words? We won’t admit it!
If there isn’t an English word to fit it,
We’ll commit COINAGE( the way the Bard did commit it!)
A rhyme for every word!
For every word a rhyme!
Every word should have a rhyme every time!

Here are some of my favorite words, they happen to rhyme. I love the way they feel in my mouth. Do you ever think about how a word feels in your mouth? Like Moon. Say it out loud. Moooon. Here are mine: Cello. Mellow. Yellow. I used to play the cello. It is like dancing with an instrument instead of just playing it and sometimes you can feel the music all the way to your back bone.

This is one of my favorite songs in the world. When I was in college I danced to it in front of a big screen that had moving pictures of autumn leaves on it. I was just a black shadow against the colors of the leaves and I was covered with their color. Maybe I love this song because I think I own September . . . maybe it is just because it is beautiful and mellow . . . so follow . . .

Try to remember

Thank you little Elisa and Peri and abundantlife and Samme and crudebliss and floyd lucious maxwell the 3rd who came to my class (after I swarmed backwards) and thank you to all the Faeries and C.C.'s (especially Julian)

P.S. I ran into floyd lucious maxwell the 2nd when I was away in Evermore. He sends his greetings and a snootfull of sherbet.

This is my Egg Dancing Painting. You can make one too!

Do you think they would make me not egg dance these days because of Salmonella? Bummers. Nothing splats just the same way as a real egg.

Egg Dance

Tags: Little Daughter Elisa, Egg Dancing, Spontaneous Cross-Curricular Teaching, Creative Movement, Conceptual Companions, Faeries, Rhymes

What is a Party Made of? Crash, Smash, Tinkle, Whisssper, Whoossh

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Sat, 23 Aug 2008 04:31:47 GMT

On my way past Paul's house I saw that he was on HIS way to a Balloon Party and Happy Hour at Janet's. I had just finished making the front of a new card for my Brother-in-Law that featured balloons. I don't know Janet yet, but this is Gaia, so I figure I can just stroll over there with my balloons and little Yes's and crash the party. What is a party made of? When I crash it will there be a tinkle like breaking glass? Will it sound like metal being hammered or material being ripped? Maybe I'll just go right in like a ghost through the wall and won't have to crash at all. I Love Parties. :- )

Yes!

Tags: What is a party made of? Party Crashing, Balloons, Happy Hour, Janet, Paul, Whooosh!

Within a Gathering of Angels - A Thank You Message for a Miracle

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Sun, 27 Jul 2008 11:19:41 GMT

Dearest Friends ~

I have been on a long, long sojourn of learning. I am learning patience. I am learning tenacity. I am learning the unimaginable resources of the human body and the human mind. I am learning the even more awe inspiring capacities of hearts and minds joined together in love.

I’ve been away from Gaia for quite a while. Part of that time I was unable to sit up. Some of the time I spent in Utah, with my mother, where I had a computer but no internet. Very quickly, the upshot on where I am physically is this: healing. Slower than I did at twenty, much slower than I would like, but I can feel it happening. I’ve had several more major falls, broken my arm, hurt my back again, learned how knees are really shock absorbers and ended up with bruises the size of continents that are really quite magnificent. I’ve also had a treatment for the nerves in my back that helped a great deal. It’s two steps forward and one step back, for sure, but I am stubbornly taking those two steps over and over. I'm working on goals of time management, perspective and closure.

I am very glad to be HOME.

What follows, below, is a Thank You Card, it is for everyone who has helped me so much on my healing journey. I had the thought that in trying to say ‘thank you’ for a gift that has changed my life, I must make something magnificent. I realized quite quickly that I couldn’t possibly ever have made anything that would in anyway touch what I had been given. How could anyone possibly ‘make’ something that would be adequate to say “Thank You” for a miracle?

Every day we open Gaia to see that we are a community that is changing the world. To some people this may mean the many big wonderful things the community does - making the entire world greener, more sustainable, more equitable, and better in so many ways. To me, this sentence means, first, that this community is changing me. In the year and a half I have been here I have changed from being very depressed, cynical and terminally despairing ~ to having hope again. I have hope in the essential kindness and goodness of people, because that is what I have seen and experienced here.

Granted, I don’t interact with all of Gaia or even many; my sphere is small. But I have found here more selfless giving, more genuine care and love for others than any where before in my life. In no school, church, social or service organization and certainly no Internet group have I ever found so much of the good in people. More wishing the best for each other, less envy and petty attention to self. I have seen the ME turn to WE. I’ve never really believed it possible before. I thought modern people were just too selfish. We are not everyone, but we are enough to show me that it is a possibility. Yes, perhaps, we can.

My very wise friend Jena said, “no one wants any thank you but for you to get well.” Yes. Very basic and undoubtably true. So that is what I am doing. Every day I walk on my Nordic Track, even when it hurts horribly. It always hurts. I drink my quota of water. I choke down all my vitamins. I meditate. I streatch. I hang upside down. I eat carefully and mindfully. And, perhaps the hardest for me, I am learning to move more slowly and carefully. In a few months there will be noticeable differences. In another year, I hope to deliver the real “Thank You Card,” Myself - healed and healthy.

I have many messages I need to answer and to pick up my Pod from the extremely capable hands that have been guiding it while I was gone. In a week, I am going to the Oregon Coast with several Gaia friends. I am so excited about that you would think I was five. I am going to post this now and then have a “Closure Parry.” Closure is one of my new goals and, you know me, I am always looking for a new reason to have a Party!

I do hope that my Grace Shower will continue and that everyone will feel welcome to come and receive as well as give. It is one of the most marvelous things I have ever experienced. Please come. Bring a friend. Yes, Amber, you can bring Boots.

Love & Blessings to all of you ~ Dryad
Edwina

Broken My Heart

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Nexrweekend I will be heading out to the Oregon Coast to ~Meet~Greet~and Celebrate Retreat with several wonderful folks from Gaia. It should be incredible . . . as there never were people who knew so well how to PLAY, to PARTY, to CELEBRATE and GENERATE JOY. I think we should make this "Retreat Into the Real World" an annual affair. For all of you who will come next August, I promise you the REAL Thank You Card. Me: healed and healthy. I will work toward it diligently all year. Come to the Oregon Coast in August of 2009 and I make this solemn promise ~ I will dance.

Dancing - August 2009

WE ALL WILL DANCE !

Beach Dancing in Oregon

With love's light wings will I o'er-perch these walls;
For stony limits cannot hold love out
And what love can do that dares love attempt;
(Romeo & Juliet II, ii)

Gaia, Annual "Retreat Into the Real World" 
Oregon Coast - 2010

2010

WE ARE SUCH STUFF AS DREAMS ARE MADE ON.
(The Tempest IV, i)

Tags: Glad to be HOME, Learning, healing, Thank You Card, Miracles, Gaia - changing the world - changing me

THE TREMENDOUS, TITANIC TALE THUNDERS ON . . .

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Sat, 26 Jul 2008 11:13:30 GMT

* I have just walked back into Gaia for the first time in almost a month. My mail box is full of unanswered letters. I have two pieces that need to go up on the Blog and I must finish that first. This is the first so as to end up second . . . you know. It will be up for sometime while I finish the other. If you come here in between, it will seem odd. The rest is coming.

I am actually doing quite well, while dealing with some new health issues such as another major fall. I am still diligently working on the positive side, exercising, drinking lots of water (thank you baby Elisa) meditating, trying to sleep . . . SOON the negative will go away and there will be a lot of plus behind the scenes.

I love you all and I am so very, very glad to be HOME.

Blessings ~ Dryad
Edwina

THE TREMENDOUS, TITANIC TALE THUNDERS ON . . .

The next part of my extravaganza. These range from birthday presents to ‘Just Thinking Of You’ notes . . . several months late. “I was ‘just thinking about you, back on March 15th . . . (There was this Soothsayer mumbling around about Ides . . . )

I would start on one of these projects, work quire diligently, but not get ‘quite’ done and then something else would happen and I would run off and start something else . . . which I also didn’t finish. Most of these were, literally, half done, there were some that were ‘almost’ done. There is something extremely unsatisfying about work that is incessantly, invariably unfinished. I found that I was doing it with everything - never getting anything to completion - and that it left me feeling slightly frantic and fragmented all the time. I couldn’t stand to let them all go, but I couldn’t see the end of ever finishing them either. I didn’t want to abandon them and I didn’t want the work to become drudgery. I cannot create that way, everything would have been flat and wrong. I couldn’t see the point in that.

I was lucky to have some time with my computer and without internet. It was very interesting, the difference in my work. I am not unplugging the internet, but I am aware of the difference now. Once I got started I worked happily during the hours that I was vertical. Rested. Walked. It was good.

And so, I have turned over a new leaf. Along with learning and practicing the fine art of NOT writing “War and Peace” in every e-mail, I hope to begin more consistently bringing my work to finality. Finish what you start. Put away the toys you were playing with before you get out new toys. You know what you have when you turn over a new leaf ? The other side of a leaf. The Aspen is my tree, however, and the Aspen turns over it’s leaves constantly, a ceaseless dance of turning over all it’s leaves, again and again. Originality. Freshness. To really experience the new, you need to finish and close the old. A wonderful metaphor. I feel happy to be on the road to translating it into reality.

Some of these are months over-due and the reason for making them is gone - I’m including them anyway, since I did do each one specifically for someone and it is an important step toward uncovering the other side of that leaf. Some of these were meant to go into Vastly-Bloated-Thank-You-Card (VBTYC) They would have been in the section titled “Support.” It turned out that there were so many, that it would further bloat the already bloated, possibly bringing it into a state of ‘Beyond-Bloat’, which would create a Beastly- Big-Bleary-Beyond-Bloat-Blog and that would be just . . . bad.

There. If any of you were harboring any fears that I am not totally myself, that should lay them to rest. I you were harboring fears that I AM still totally myself . . . sorry about that! :-P

This is by no means everyone I need to thank, acknowledge or celebrate - these just happened to be what I had half finished and was able to complete. I really do feel a marvelous sense of closure and completion and I am so glad to be able to give each of these to their various owners.

** Also note that there are a few of these “presents” inside the VBTYC. There are two paintings for Jaguar Goddess: “Bliss Cat” and “Courage.” There are two otters which I didn't paint. I keep finding them, however, two by two. So they are for my fellow otter, Otter! Me & You! There is a very special painting that I have been working on for a long time for Katherine Estelle Eveningstar titled “The Goddess Rocking” and two paintings that I have done in the past for my dear friend Megan, who is Raven here at Gaia. If you have not met Raven, drop over and say hello. She is a remarkable woman and my dear friend through all kinds of thicks and thin. Raven is here: http://ravens.gaia.com/

Here are your own Raven's darling Megan. I am so glad that you are here. Now that I am getting better we must get serious about Playing!

Circle in the Sun - For Raven

FOR JENA

Jena . . . she is the girl who began it all. The first time I looked at “Playing Beside Dryad’s Bed” last December I was utterly astounded at how much was there . . . how many people had come to send love and well wishes. My first thought was that Jena had pulled them all in just by the sheer force of her will. Like all other magnificent forces of nature, Jena’s will is nothing to take lightly. Some days I think she is running the entire world from her den in the 4th Dimension. The only reason that I know this isn’t true is because if Jena were running the world, the world would be in a lot better shape. It is Jena I need to thank most and it is Jena who needs no thanks but my being whole. So, I am working. Each day when I walk on my Nordic Track, when I drink my eight glasses of water and choke down all my vitamins, I am saying “Thank You” to Jena. Each meditation session that I come away from centered, each time I stop a self directed negative thought, I am Thanking Jena. I have come to think of a lot of the things I do every day as: “Thanking Jena.” Her strength and energy shelter me when I am weak, pull me on as I get stronger, give me a goal to aim for.

FOR JENA

Sometimes I turn the Grace Shower Pink!

When I had the rather, um, ambitious idea that I would make something for everyone who had written to me, I started with Jena. And that was about as far as I got! This is one piece that is still not finalized. It will be a series of paintings on the Cycle of the Phoenix. The circles and cycles of the earth are a great love of mine. The Phoenix, Jena’s bird, is a rapid and somewhat violent example of all these cycles. Creation in fast motion. Here is a one of the paintings from the series, it is titled ‘Phoenix Rising.’

Phoenix Rising - For Jena

Jena’s business is hands. I seem to think of Jena whenever I see hands (that is quite often!) The next piece is quite different than my usual style. I like to do something completely different occasionally. It keeps me from getting my toes in a rut. I had a lot of fun doing this.

Jenazhandz

FOR PERIDOT
Peridot is a beautiful green gem who lives at Play-Pod, Gaia, Earth, Milky Way, Universe. Sometimes. When Peri chose a name for herself she certainly did it right, for she is the Gem of Gaia. “A person who is as brilliant and precious as a piece of jewelry.” The definition is perfect, except that I can’t imagine a piece of jewelry as brilliant and precious as our Peridot. Why cross the wide seas searching for treasure when the greatest treasure of all is right in our own back yard?

Well, one reason might be because crossing the wide seas is fun. Another reason might be that we were playing Hide&Seek and we were IT! Then we might go searching for treasure because Peri would be hiding somewhere! Otherwise, we would take our treasure with us and then everything will be twice as happy, sixteen times more joyful and a thousand-million-trillion-bazillion times more FUN. Peri, you see, knows how to PLAY, which means she can be anywhere at anytime. She can even be in several places at the same time! The ability to PLAY is a get out of jail free card, a passport that will take you to enchanted foreign lands, exotic worlds, backwards in time, forward in time, deep into time and in circles around it. I suspect that if we could see Peri’s face we would see a blissful, dreaming look come across it often. I know that look, it is one of my favorite outfits. When they took away the swings and sandbox, when they took away the time and the permission, I learned to take the Playground inside my head. In the years that followed, I only found one person who still knew how to play. The ugly part of the world took my playmate away and I was alone again. I did finally get some more playmates, but I had to make them myself! Well, OK, I had some help, but most of it I did all myself. They were swell and they still know how to play, but they have all run off and are playing with other people! They ditched me!

Then I found Peri, or she found me, or Barry, the Gaia Phenomenon, hooked us up and once again, I was not alone because, Peri, not only knows HOW to play, she LIKES to play and she gets EXCITED! and she doesn’t roll her eyes saying “This is stupid. I’m so bored” with her eyebrows or “You are crazy” with her crossed arms. Wait a minute! I don’t know what Peri is doing with her arms or her eyebrows! I can’t see her. But, you know what? I still KNOW that she doesn’t roll her eyes saying “I’m so bored” with her eyebrows or “You are crazy” with her crossed arms. This is all a gift of such awe and wonder, that I won’t ever be able to even tell what it means, no less say thank you adequately.

All of the Mod Squad have done a tremendous job keeping PLAY-POD a-float while I was busy cracking-up, mending-up, healing, learning. But I think we all know that it is Peri who does the work, who watches things carefully and takes care of what needs to be taken care of. Peri was with me during the conception and construction of PLAY-POD, right from the beginning. Peridot is the Gem of Gaia, the Treasure of PLAY-POD; she is my friend, my sister, my companion, my co-creator, most of all she is my Playmate. And I am SO glad.

For Peridot

WE WRITE ON WALLS!

FOR MARY AND PERI

This one is for Peri and Mary. Mary, where are you? Where are those poor little girls stranded on top of somewhere without their horses? Where are the horses? Are THESE the lost horses? Do you think? Where on earth are they?! And WHAT did they do . . . run through a rainbow?

Kaleidoscope Horses Dance the Burning Sea

Truthfully, it’s all a dodge. I made it all as colorful and splashy as I could in an attempt to lure Mary back to us. Isn’t that what they do when catching fish? Make the lures bright and colorful? The whole world gets decked out in color during the spring, hoping to lure summer to come and stay forever. Of course it never stays, but it does show up with astonishing regularity. I have even included a kaleidoscope of horses. I’ll make one for every color of the Cloudbow and you can spin it and watch the crystal horses tumble and dance. “I’ll Tumble 4 U” (By Boy George &/Or the Horses) You know that you don’t ever have to write any story, just come and play. When there isn’t time for stories, lets write poems. When there isn’t time for poems, lets write short poems. When there isn’t time for short poems lets write four letter words on the wall.

1. W     M      P     P     P    P
2. A      A      E     O    O    O
3. L      R    R    O    E     N
4. L      Y   I      H    M    Y

O-Wh-air-O-wh-AIR- R U? Are you busy doing dreadfully earnest, groan-up things that are substantial and significant? These things can reversed. People have been saved. There are rehabilitation programs. If this is the case ~ do not despair. We will stay beside you through everything. Remember: Love means never having to say you’re sorry. Tomorrow is another day. A spoon full of sugar makes the medicine go down. May the Force be with you. Lets get out of these wet clothes and into a dry martini. Follow the, Follow the, Follow the, Follow the, Follow the Yellow Brick Road. Here's Looking at YOU kid!

THE INCREDIBLE, EARTH SHAKING NEWS
This is incredible, earth shaking news. You will not find it on Yahoo News, nor ABC, NBC the BBC or Oh Say Can You C. You will only find it here. Only people with a great deal of stick2ativeness will make it this far. THUS = Only a few people will know. Mary. Peri. The Pioneer Playsters ~ Founding Playmates of PLAY-PODism. (Here, she is overcome with emotion for a moment. Someone hands her a tissue. She thinks what a truly fine/odd word tissue is. She says it several times in her head, contemplates saying it out loud, decides no, dabs the sides of her eyes then wads the tissue in her hand. She muses on the truly delicious onomatopoeia involved in the opposite sounds of ‘tissue’ and ‘wad’. Seriously considers mentioning this. Decides no. ) A hem:

I have invented/discovered the PLAY-POD SONNET.

Yes, folks it is a brand new form of a sonnet to stand bravely beside the Shakespearian Sonnet and the English Sonnet, which are the same thing, and confidently beside the Italian Sonnet and the Petrarchan Sonnet, which are the same thing. It will rival the Spenserian Sonnet because no one ever writes the Spenserian Sonnet, no one ever DID write the Spenserian Sonnet because Spenserian Sonners are convoluted. Spencer probably didn’t like writing the Spenserian Sonnet. Spenser was not particularly convoluted, just long winded, but his sonnet is convoluted. I am long winded, but my sonnet is NOT convoluted. The New and Marvelous PLAY-POD Sonnet will vastly surpass the Miltonic Sonnet, since Milton was Milton and had a sonnet in his bonnet, among other flaws. I will NOT be unveiling the HISTORY MAKING PLAY-POD SONNET until I have you both beside me (cyberish) with sharpened quills in your hands, your parchment before you, wearing yellow knickers.

FOR LIBUSKA

It is not a secret that I cry fairly easily. Strangely, I very rarely cry because I am sad or because of pain. I cry a lot, but they are almost always happy tears, “touched” tears, tears of wonder, tears of awe. Tears for beauty. Tears for love. Babies make me cry. Redwoods make me cry. I cried when I first heard about the Inklings. You know, that C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien were friends and sat around the Bird & Baby in Oxford drinking pints, smoking their pipes and discussing their work. The fact that these men I loved had known and loved each other was just so wonderful that had to cry.

It was much the same kind of crying when I opened up my Grace Shower Board and found a message from Libuska, who is my own little sister. The fact that Gaia and Libuska are together just made me so incredibly happy. Those of you who are participating in the Grace Shower may have felt her presence. She has a strong, sweet, clear presence that makes everything better just by being there. The fact that we didn’t manage to have the same parents during this turning was an accident or something, as was getting born on two different sides of a deep wide sea, but it doesn’t matter. Libuska is the little sister of my heart ~ Alpha to Omega ~ around and within all the circles of time.

Libuska’s icon is a painting that I did of her dancing - when I really couldn’t paint very well. I cried when I saw that too. Not because the painting was so bad, but because it brought back happy memories. There was a story that went with that painting about a man looking for treasure when he didn’t understand at all what treasure is. Then a beautiful woman with red hair who was dancing in a white dress among purple flowers came . . . perhaps she taught him something worth knowing. I don’t know . . . the story ended there. I have hope for the man. He is somewhere in time eternal where a goddess is teaching him to waltz, something she knows very much about.

I went looking for a quote about sisters or sisterhood to put with the new painting I made for Libuska. I found some that were nice, but none that were right. So, I had to write one. Actually, I had to write two. (Don't tell) One is serious and one is silly. And then a friend you love who loves you too. Welcome to Gaia, my dearest!

Sisterhood is one of the Great Mysteries. Made of friendship, but more than friendship, it is a love different than any other. It is everything from a two-year-old puzzling at an ultra-sound picture to the Sisterhood of Gaia ~ all the women of planet earth, each a sister to the other. It is anything and everything between. Sisters are bound by secrets, telephone wires, memories, kite strings, whispers in the night. A sister is a haven and harbor ~ always open; a sanctuary and shelter from a world that is not always easy, not always kind. Whatever life may throw in hurt or havoc at your face, someone has eternally got your back. Sisterhood is laughter, listening, understanding, joy; a heart that continually celebrates you and glories in your every success; a shoulder that swallows tears; an ear that listens, an ear that hears; arms that hold you, soft and secure ~ even when those arms are not physically present. The miles between you do not matter, nor the time spent apart. Sisterhood is a bond that time cannot sever, nor miles erase. It is not complicated or complex, it is strong, solid and sure - a knowing that is simply unending. “You are not alone. You are never alone. I am here.”

"I am here."

©Edwina Peterson Cross

Sisterhood

NERUDA MOON ~ FOR JEANNIE ~

This is for Jeannie ~ Rapunzel. I owe Jeannie a great debt of gratitude for information that has made my recovery so much easier, more comfortable, quicker. This painting, however, was/is a birthday present. It is several months late. I started it over several times. It had to be . . . deep enough? Resonant? Empty? Full? I can’t even say what I mean with words, but it had to be something for me to even think of associating it with Pablo Neruda, who I consider one of the greatest masters of the art I love. The painting, somehow, had to hold rain. I left it several times thinking I was being somewhere west of arrogant to even think I could pair a painting with a Neruda poem. I do have one poem titled “After Neruda.” I guess I feel a good deal more confident in that medium. In the end, it was not really what I had envisioned, but I felt that I had at least touched the‘feel’ I was looking for. So, from one who loves ‘The Poet of Love” to another: Happy Birthday Jeannie. May you have many more, and may they all be spent in love.

Sonnet VIII

If your eyes were not the color of the moon,
of a day full [here, interrupted by the baby waking -- continued about 26
hours later ]
of a day full of clay, and work, and fire,
if even held-in you did not move in agile grace like the air,
if you were not an amber week,

not the yellow moment
when autumn climbs up through the vines;
if you were not that bread the fragrant moon
kneads, sprinkling its flour across the sky,

oh, my dearest, I could not love you so!
But when I hold you I hold everything that is --
sand, time, the tree of the rain,

everything is alive so that I can be alive:
without moving I can see it all:
in your life I see everything that lives.

~ Pablo Neruda ~

Neruda Moon

FROSTING ON THE CAKE OF LIFE ~ FOR SPRITE ~

* Dancing Shoes of Bubbles Scented With Gold
* Mandolins on Malachite, Music Pearled and Feathered
* Sprite’s Forever Budding, Bursting into Bloom

This poem & these paintings for Sprite have been lurking “almost done” for a long time. They are her prize for solving a “Silent Treasure Hunt.” These are ‘planted’ here and there around Gaia, if you find one, you get a prize - hopefully before you are 99. This is such a great illustration of the leaf I am trying to turn over. After I finished the poem, I liked the images so much that I decided I had to do a painting for each one. That is just a little nuts, but at least I recognized it! What is funny is that out of all the bubbling, glistening, spriteful images I go and paint feathered mandolins on malachite? I’m often fascinated by the truly odd things I do. I did feel very good about the poem. I felt like it captured, in a way, the glittering, sparkling, scintillation of love and wonder that is Buddingspritelet. I loved making this for her.

Frosting on the Cake of Life

Love, hugs and peach champagne
Marshmallow ribbons and silver rain
Silver and satin, sugared with cold
Dancing shoes of bubbles scented with gold
Unicorns of lace, with licorice tethered
Mandolins on malachite, music pearled and feathered
Syncopated sunshine, rolled with a rock
Knights bearing lemon drops, that tickle and talk
Mornings of twilight, evenings of dawn
London in your pocket, when all the lint is gone
Poems made of kisses, snuggles made of snow
Shimmers at your fingertips, and tigers that grow
Grow bigger than the Parthenon with teeth of wax
Silent soup for supper, spiced with glue and flax
Sprite’s forever budding, bursting into bloom
Fill the world with sweetshine and lusterpeach perfume
Glaze and glint, gloss and gleam, giggle, glitter, glow
Glimmer, glisten, goodness, glancing, greenly grow
Shimmer in a sleekly sheen, scintillation, shine
Friends are life’s frosting and I’m glad your mine!

Edwina Peterson Cross
~ Dryad ~

Dancing shoes of bubbles scented with gold

Mandolins on malachite, music pearled and feathered

For Samme

THE DOOR IN THE FOREST ~ FOR LEAF ~

The Gaia Phenomenon. I suppose there are several Gaia Phenomenon. This particular phenomenon is the way like minded people find each other, often without either of them having done much of anything. Given that something happens between two people with neither of them doing anything, one might even begin to assume that their was a third force at work. (or a 4th, 5th, 6th ) I don’t know what it is. I named it ‘The Gaia Phenomenon’ just because that sounded more serious and stately than naming it, for instance, Barry.

Leaf and I had only to metaphorically ‘look’ at each other and we knew that we are soul sisters and probably have been for a very long time. We write infrequently and often not for a terrific length, but there is depth ~ a depth as rich and deep as the loam that covers the most secret and sacred parts of the forest; a depth of wind and wood, in that dark carpet made from the cycled-tears of trees and time; made by the fire of the sun as it slants through the lace of pine fingers, carrying a thin patina of last years dry leaves, hanging so silent in the sunspun air.

The Wood is always open, but perhaps your streets and sidewalks are safer. You won’t get run over by a truck or get your pocket picked here, but it is dangerous none the less. You could be run over by a sudden massive moon, an army of radiant beams pouring like a charge of the Fianna over the ebony hills. You might just get your heart picked by silent tears of starlight, shimmering like silver through the shivering trees. Yes. It is dangerous here. For it is here that things are real. The reality of horn and bone, of wide unblinking eyes gleaning and gathering gold in the twilight. The Mystery is here. Know that. Then come in. If you dare. Here is where you will find Leaf and Dryad, companions held eternal by the delicate dance of a swirling steam. Here you will find us . . . What else will you find? There is nothing for you to do but come and see ~ what you will see.

For Leaf ~ The Forest Door

Cast a ring on hallowed ground
Silent stones set in a round
Listen for an absent sound
Footsteps in the dew

Breath of life, deep green and slow
Here where noble giants grow
Magic and enchantment flow
And weave the hidden clue

Footprints on the forest floor
Spell out words of ancient lore
That tell the tale of a hidden door
That few may ere pass through

Shall we take this perilous chance?
Spin until we’re in a trance?
For we are two who know The Dance
Sister, me and you

We’ll bind wild ivy in our hair
Drink the words that are not there
We’ll dance a whirling, glistening prayer
Trace a door in the soft, green air
And laughing, we’ll fly through

©Edwina Peterson Cross

The Door in the Forest

Elisa is my Gaia adopted daughter. She keeps me on my toes with her tricks, twingings and wonderful turning of words. Elisa has promised never to get any older than five; unlike that other kind of kid who grows up and runs away. This is a Yballul that I wrote for Elisa. It just may be the first Yballul in the world. A Yballul is the opposite of a lullaby. Instead of singing it to send a child to sleep, you sing it in the morning to wake them up. So much nicer than alarm clocks. I have been working on the painting for some time - my inspiration came from a beautiful mirror actually carved in wood and twined with living ivy. I wanted to buy one for Elisa, but they were not interested in swapping a poem for the $1000 mirror. Elisa’s name at Gaia is “Mirror.” Mine is “Dryad” . . . this is a coming together ~ A Dryad Mirror. Mine is more beautiful than the original, because of what you can see inside it.

MY MOMMY LOVES ME ~ YBALLUL FOR ELISA

My Mommy always loves me more and more each day
She doesn’t know just how she does, but she does it anyway
Did you know? My Mommy loves me even more than the sun
Sighing into twilight when the day dance is done
Did you know? My mommy loves me more than the moon
Floating through the sky like a fat, gold balloon
Did you know? My mommy loves me more than the stars
Like the fabrillion golden fireflies we catch in crystal jars
Then we let them all go and we follow their flight
Off into the velvet of a blooming summer night
We dance in secret passageways all across the skies
And swoop above a salt-green sea, the color of my eyes
Then we land, laughing, in my Mommy’s aspen tree
My mommy loves the aspen, but not as much as me
My mommy doesn’t love me just because I’m good
Or because I always do all the things that I should
About being good - sometimes I just don’t make it
Sometimes I even get caught, right out trying to fake it
But Mommy still loves me no matter what weird things I do
And I can do more quirky things than you could er’ construe!
Just who it is my Mommy loves could not be any clearer
She says she loves the Pixie who lives inside my mirror
My Mommy doesn’t love me just because I’m sweet
Or ‘cause I make great pancakes and sometimes wash my feet
It isn’t ‘cause I can skip, or climb the biggest tree
My Mommy says she loves me, just because I’m me

I told my mom I loved her too, and I hated to complain
But EVERYBODY says that, it really takes no brain
I told her she was really smart and clever as a cat
She could come up with an ending way less dorky than that
She thought a bit about it, then said “you know, it’s true
It’s kind of lame to say I love you because you’re you.”
“Great!” I said, “you’ve got it! I knew you understood!
I’m sure that you’ll come up with something wicked good.”
“I’ve got it!” she cried, excited. “This will end the poem just fine
I love you little sweet-feet - just because you’re mine!”
I guess I looked disgusted as I slumped back down the hall
“Sorry mom, you missed it. That’s just not it at all
Everything that you come up with sounds like a cliched pun.
This one’s just as beige and blah! as the other boring one.
Alas,” I sniffed, “I’m loved for reasons mediocre!”
“I love you,” yelled my mother, “cause you let me cheat at poker.
I love you cause you call last week, “those good old bygone days”
And because you never want to do what is ‘the latest faze.’
I love you ‘cause you dyed the cat to match your new plaid dress;
‘cause the Plummer’s the only person you ever try to impress.
I love you ‘cause you like to read with your feet stuck in the ditch;
And ‘cause you asked for you birthday for a philharmonic pitch.
I love you ‘cause you have the taste to love everything that’s pink.
I love you, darling daughter, ‘cause your feet? They REALLY STINK!”
“Thanks Mom!” I yelled, and smiled. I think the old girl’s got potential.
And its so nice to know you’re loved ~ for things so . . . consequential.

Written by The Dryad for Her Daughter Elisa
July, 2008 When Elisa is Five-Years-old

Elisa s Dryad Mirror

FOR MARTHA
The title of this picture for Martha is “Expect a few Changes.” I’m still looking for quarters, Martha, dimes, nickels . . . the other day I found an Euro just sitting there in a parking lot, now, what does that mean? I wondered if an impromptu rendition of “It’s a Small World.” was in order? I also wondered if an impromptu rendition of “Belly up to the Bar Boys” was in order? I am still keeping my eyes open and, frankly, expecting Pieces of Eight or nothing. What do you think?

Expect Some Slight Changes

BUTTERFLIES BEFORE THE BALL ~ FOR MAMAKAT ~

* The Children’s Ball
* Vivianna at the Apex
* Betta at the Apex
* Waltz!

When the New Boards arrive at PLAY-POD, one of them will be all about Co-creation. I am very excited about the entire idea. We begin on a small scale ~ one-with-one ~ but when the concept is extrapolated it can become something huge and healing for the whole world. It is a wonderful way to learn: about each other, about ourselves, about our art. Kat and I knew very soon after we ‘met’ that it wasn’t our first meeting. And Kat is one of the few that I have REALLY met! There are so many things we shared right from the beginning. The ‘Tales from the Vienna Woods’ is one of them. Now we will dream together, creating our own tale . . .our own waltz . . .

MamaKat and I have begun our shared story of Betta and Vivianna, two seventeen years old girls who have reached what they have always believed to be the pinnacle of their lives. Their skirts have been let down and their hair has been put up . . . they are about to go to their first ball. It is 1863 in the Vienna of Johann Sebastian Strauss, known far and wide as “The Waltz King.” They stand at this turning point, this apex, one eagerly looking forward, the other nostalgically looking back. Where will each be by the end of the evening? As the fateful hour approaches, Vivianna begins to have some metaphoric butterflies in her proverbial stomach that start to escape from her lips like the rushing, gush and spate of an early spring butterfly hatch . . .

The Children s Ball

Vivianna at the Apex

Betta at the Apex

WALTZ

~ TALES FROM THE VIENNA WOODS ~
BUTTERFLIES BEFORE THE BALL (Vivianna - Third Person)
7/17/08

“Oh! Betta,” said Vivianna, in a breathless voice, “you look so beautiful!! I mean really. Not the way people say, “how do I look?”and the other person says, “lovely,” without looking. No. You really look so beautiful that you don’t even look like yourself. Oh, no! THAT didn’t come out right! I don’t mean that you are not always beautiful . . . Ugh! I don’t know how I plan to make ‘small talk’ with some gentleman when I can’t even manage to say what I mean to you. My Grandmother says that one shouldn’t necessarily say what one means to a gentleman either. Betta, why do they call it ‘small talk?’ That sounds like you have to use words that have only three letters. I wonder how hard it would be to really talk like that? We should try it! But not tonight. Tonight, soon, off we go like good little lambs to the slaughter. Oh, don’t raise your eyebrows! Yes, ‘lambs to the slaughter’ is excessive and is a terrible cliche, but . . . Oh! I’m scared Betta! And bad cliche’s practically feed on things like fright. I know I’m not supposed to feel that way in the first place or to admit it if I do, but there it is! It’s pathetic! Scared is inching it’s way toward terrified. What if I can’t think of anything at all to say? What if I start talking and I end up prattling? You KNOW I do prattle. How are we supposed to dance and make ‘small talk’ with ‘gentlemen’ like Adam and Anthony? Honestly, doesn’t it make your eyeballs itch to think of Adam and Anthony as ‘gentlemen?’ How are we supposed to make ‘small talk’ when we all know perfectly well that Adam pushed me out of the apple tree and Anthony used to tease you about your freckles until you cried. Betta . . . where did your freckles go? Did all that buttermilk really drink them away? When did they go? I don’t even remember when I saw them last. Did you lose your freckles the way you are always losing your pocket handkerchief? Oh, Betta . . . I . . . I think I’m going to cry. The most important night of my life and I’m going to cry over your lost freckles. But, Betta, I feel like so much is lost. That is wrong, I know. This is what we have waited for our whole lives. This is why we brushed our hair 100 times every night and took dance lessons since we were three and tried a million horrible remedies to get the spots off our chins. Your skin looks like cream, Betta. Not like peaches and cream, but like strawberries and cream. Or maybe cherries. Would anyone eat cherries with cream, I wonder? This is the pinnacle of our lives! The peak, the apex, the apogee, the acme, the zenith! So why do feel like I’m going to cry? It’s because you look so beautiful and THAT is odd beyond the likes of even me. Why do I feel like something precious is ending instead of just beginning? My mother says that we must CHERISH these “Dancing Years,” because they are so short. Soon we will be married and all this will be over. We will still be able to dance, of course, but it will ‘never be the same!’ That is what my mother keeps saying. THAT is rather drastic, don’t you think? To keep telling someone they have to get married before they’ve even been to their first ball? Then she sighs and says, ‘CHERISH these years. They will evaporate like dew in the morning sun.’ That is a disastrous cliche and it is depressing. She also told me to remember to stand up straight. Did you ever hear that before? I swear, I was probably three seconds old when the midwife said, ‘it’s a girl’ and my mother replied, ‘stand up straight Vivianna.’ THIS time she had to add that if I don’t stand up straight the puffs on my dress hang crooked. I just know I’m going to spend the entire night sticking out my chest trying to keep my puffs straight. I wonder who the storyteller is this year, upstairs where the children are wishing they were old enough to be down here? Do you remember Mama Petroli who told us Babba Yaga? Or The Great Zamboni who told stories while running on top of a big ball, balancing with a big stick that had a tiny dog on each end ? Betta, do you remember how we used to sneak in and watch the “big girls” get ready for the ball? They were so lovely in their dresses, all different colors like butterflies, with their hair all done up and their jewels on, all glistening and glinting, glittering, gleaming and glimmering . . . Did I already say glimmering? The excitement in the air was just like the feeling right before lightening strikes, when the air is so full of . . . something. Even though we weren’t going to the ball we still had that hushed, incipient lightening beating in our throats just from being close to it. Betta. I don’t have any lightening in my throat now. I just have a big bull frog squatting there, filling up my whole throat so I can’t swallow. Or possibly a schmee Iguana with a long, fat tail that goes clear down my throat. The big girls would sneak in front of the big beveled mirror and pinch their cheeks and bite their lips to make themselves rosy, and there in our hiding place,we would have to stuff our fingers in our mouths to keep from laughing. They were all so SERIOUS about their clandestine pinching. Frau Schmidt says all that pinching is just a good way to get blisters and bruises. Betta, I think it was the hair and the dresses and the jewels that were so pretty, then. Do you know? Your hair turned out quite flawless, even though you didn’t think it would. And your dress is exquisite. Did you ever in your whole wide life think that you would ever wear a dress with that many yards of material in the skirt? And the pearls! Think all the little rose buds that gave up their lives for my dress, just for one night! But, Betta . . . it is YOU that is beautiful. Do you know that? Maybe I didn’t see the beauty in the older girls real selves because I didn’t know their real selves? Betta, I am so glad that we were born in the same year and have been able to do all our turnings together. But now that I think of it, it isn’t just because I know you. Like the fact that I know when your eyebrows are going to go up or what it means when that little almost dimple appears by the right side of your mouth. It isn’t just that, it is just flat out that you are so beautiful tonight. I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful. I mean that really. Literally. Never. Why isn’t there another word that means beautiful? There are other words like pretty, or lovely or gorgeous, but none of them mean just what beautiful does. You won’t have to pinch your cheeks. I can tell that you’ve got the lightening in your throat and it is making your cheeks so lovely and glowing. I rather think that I am going to cry now. Then my eyes will be all red, not to mention my nose. You’ll have rosy cheeks and I’ll have a rosy nose. Betta, I know you are so excited and that you are not scared at all, but I . . . well, I almost wish we were listening to the story teller right now and waiting for secrets. No, it’s not almost, I really do wish we WERE upstairs. Or at least I wish I was. You know that during all those etiquette and decorum lessons Frau Schmidt kept saying that I was totally useless. I WILL laugh at the wrong time, I know it. Or get caught up in that laugh where I start to snort? What if the pins come out of this absurd snod and all my piled up curls fall down? What if I don’t stand up straight and my puffs hang wrong and so I step on the bottom ruffles and trip? The dresses we have practiced dancing in for eons were SHORT and didn’t have flounces and ruffles and lace, pearls and flowers and all these starched slips! I wish we were wearing short skirts and our pantalets! I just know I will stumble, fumble, bungle and blunder. I would trip the gentleman I was dancing with as well and then the couple behind us in the circle would trip over us and the next couple would trip over them and the whole circle would go down like dominoes. Actually, that would be rather stunning if it hadn’t been my fault and I wasn’t at the bottom of the pile of dominoes. Betta, can I talk about novels, or must I pretend that I don’t read them? What on earth ARE we supposed to talk about? Frau Schmidt spent so much time telling us what NOT to do that she never got around to telling us what we should do. Say. Talk about. Do they expect us to know what the King is doing at the Royal Habsburg Court in Vienna? Do they expect us to know who he is doing it with? Snnnuft! You see what I mean? WHAT if I go and say something like that? What if all these flowers start falling off my dress? What if bees follow me all night and sting all the gentlemen who dance with me? What if I loose my grandmother’s pink tourmaline? It was NOT my idea to wear it! Grandmother says it brings luck of the best kind having been given to her by a foreign Duke who smoked green cigars! I do like intrigue, particularly in regard to the mysterious and possibly nefarious activities of one’s Grandmother! Betta, why is it that Grandmother’s seem to have done interesting things and mother’s are inevitably so boring? Do you think? It seems to me Grandmother’s had to have been mother’s once. Were they boring then? I do not intend to be boring, EVER, so I must have at least some adventures during these CHERISH years. You shall have to come with me, of course, you have a way of turning my disasters to adventures. Noone wants even their Grandmother to have had disasters. I hope that tripping over my flounces is not going to be the only adventure of my life. Really, I probably won’t trip. I do know how to dance and I do love dancing! I didn’t mean what I said about wishing we were wearing short skirts and our pantalets, I’ve always wanted to dance in one of these fantastic, floaty dresses that come all the way to the floor! Maybe not floaty . . . does your dress feel floaty? Buoyant maybe? I just wish I could do it by myself! Why can’t one dance around by one’s self? Why must one be hanging on to a gentleman to dance? I would love to dance to Herr Strauss’ beautiful music all by myself, with no one else in the whole ball room . . . except maybe you, if you are good. Betta, this is serious. What if no one wants to dance with me? What if my father has to come and MAKE someone dance with me? He would you know. And I would have to die on the spot. What if I have to dance with one of the foreign gentlemen and I can’t talk to him? My French is terrible and my English worse. There is an AMERICAN gentleman here, did you know that?! What if I have to dance with HIM? Do the American’s speak the same English that the English speak? Do you think he will have a gun on his belt underneath his coat? Oh, Betta! How do you say, “isn’t it a lovely evening?” and ruffle your eyelashes at someone who pushed you out of an apple tree? Oh, Betta . . . I am prattling in the worst way . . . aren’t I?

"GRAND BABY CARD" FOR AYLA

I started this “card” for Ayla when she first found out that her coming grandchild would be a boy. It is undoubtably too “busy”, but after all . . . THAT’s what little boys really are. I don’t know about the snips and snails and puppy dog tails, but they are usually very busy! When I worked as a poetry editor I had one hard and fast rule. I wouldn’t even look at anything that used the words “Boy” and “Joy” as a rhyme. You cannot imagine how many times it happens. Just like every one thinks their babies are the most beautiful, everyone thinks they are the first person who ever thought of saying that their little boy was such a joy. So the words on the card are a bit of a joke on myself. I’ve just been to see Jimmy’s pictures and you know what? Ayla is not a prejudiced Grandmother . . . he really IS incredibly beautiful. So I guess we should take her word about his being sweet and well behaved as well, she seems to be telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Oh! That sweet little chin! Those chubby little hands . . . a bad case of Grandmother envy is striking . . .

It s a Boy!

FOR STARSEED

This may be strange, but before I came to Gaia I had never heard the term 'Starseed' the way people use it here. I have a very old poem - from college - in which I talk about the seed of a star. My thought there was planting it in the earth and growing stars. In this painting, I was playing around with the concept. I've linked the seed - coming from the earth - with fire - coming from the heavens and from that union, I’ve "grown" a star. It is an interesting name, word, concept with many different possible configurations.

And for the beautiful woman who wears that name . . . I want to thank you for always being there for me - checking on me, letting me know you are glad when I make it into the chair. You know, you have said a couple of things to me in the last little while that were fairly prophetic. We need to 'talk!'

starseed

Amber is the human who belongs to the most schmee of iguana’s, Boot’s the Magnificent. Amber has been my companion recently in the never ending search for Niap. (Niap, if you do not know, is the state of being that is opposite pain. ) Amber and I have done the back-pain thing together, surgery, recovery and on to healing. We decided, some time ago, that to aid us on our road to health we would do healing Mandalas together. The only problem was that we were both too sick to get them going. So! Here is the beginning of our Co-Creation Healing Mandala project - my part is done and it’s ready to pass on to Amber. If anyone else is interested in doing healing Manadala’s - any kind of Mandala’s or Co-Creation please let me know.
So Amber! I gave each Mandala a name, thinking that would be easier to keep track of. In this batch:
1. Blank Hand. I did one of these all the way. My is titled "Left." I also started one to share with you, titled Handz. Then there is the blank one for you to do your own. When we are done, we can give them to Jena! Hi Jena!
2. Balance - Ready for your part.
3. Unity - Ready for your part.

If you are going to do them by hand - print each one, when you are through, scan it back in and send it! We are going to have a Healing Mandala Court at PLAY-POD.
More to come soon! If you have/find some send them to me backwards!

Unity

Balance

Left

Handz

Blank Hand

"I'll Take Care of You" ~ For Jami

When I started this painting for Jami I didn’t have a reason. I just thought about the fact that lionesses climb trees and the next moment, on that cool projection screen on the back of my eyelids, I saw this little Dryad in the tree with the Lioness. It wasn’t until I was almost through painting it that I decided the little Dryad’s toes looked cold and tucked them under the Lioness’s warm, furry tail. Jami, did you know that Snow Leopards tails are as long as their bodies? LONGLONG tails! They use them for balance on the snow and the rocks. Maybe I need a tail!

When I got home to PLAY-POD I found a message that tells me Jami is having a hard time. I’m glad I got my painting finished to send right now, because I can see now what it means. Just like the Lioness is keeping the Dryad warm with her own tail, you are always ready to help other people with everything you’ve got. I can’t count the times that I have been feeling very bad, didn’t tell anyone or anything, but when I came to Gaia, I would find a message from you. I think you are probably an empath, and that you can tell when other people are hurting. This is a gift because it makes it so you know when someone is having pain or trouble and you are there to help them, just by letting them know you are thinking of them, just by being you. This gift has a hard side too, however. When you feel every bodies everything and it over-loads you or when the sensitivity that makes you so gentle and caring also makes it so you are hurt by the world more than other people are. This happens to me too. I am lighting my green heart chakra candle for you right now. Heart. Something you have so much of. Be well, my friend. Come into the grace shower with me. We will sit quietly together until we feel stronger. And then we will dance.

I'll Take Care of You

Paul has the most fantastic collection of pictures you will ever see. I have wanted for sometime to do some Co-Creating with Paul. I also want to do something that will let me spend time with all those fantabulous pictures. Voila! A short story is born, two with one blow, double-your-money-double-your-fun, I found a way to do both! I have written the first part, Paul, now I ping-pong pass it to you. Will you do it? THE GAUNTLET! She is down! Will you come and play?

THE LOST ART OF CREATION

She could tell that she was late when she woke up. It was supposed to be technically impossible to be late waking up, but she managed to circumvent the neural-placed automatic wake chip as easily as she had managed to slam her hand down on the alarm clock when she was very young. When she was attendant upon Advanced Learning it had driven one Profanator completely mad. He swore it was impossible to circumvent the auto-wake chip, but when he demanded how she did it, she could only shrug. She didn’t know, and she didn’t particularly care. He, however, was always having to go off and be scanned because his interest levels on the subject rose above what a common System was set to analyze.

She rolled out of bed, stretching slowly and yawning. As she stepped on the floor the reflex-return poured warm water into a china mug. She wasn’t supposed to be using china, but no one had caught her yet. There was something elegant and refined about china. Perhaps it was simply the fact that it could break that made her like it. There was really not anything at all that was provided for usual-use that had the ability to break. She had replaced the metal mug with this clandestine china and would continue to do so until she got caught. The mug was the right size and weight so the reflex-return was nor tripped. It had been gifted to her by her biological mother’s biological mother; the ancients would have called her a “Great-Mother.” She had never mer this ‘Great-Mother’, but knew that she lived Outside-Compound, something she could hardly imagine. When the mug came in Delivery-Systemation, it included a message that was signed with the word ‘Love.’

The word was not forbidden, but was a warrant for intense scrutiny. Against all training and common sense, she had incinerated the message and never key-coded anything about it. It made her feel strange in the region of her pancreas; a feeling she could not identify. How could she code it if she couldn’t identify it? At least this is what she told herself. She knew perfectly well that there was a key sequence for unknown sentiments. She didn’t think about it any more, except to use the mug and enjoy it’s creamy color, smooth surface and possibility the fact that it could break.

She sipped her warm water dutifully, dully, gazing at the picture in the frame that changed every minute. It went from mountains to seaside to meadows of flowing green. None of them produced even a whisper of interest, she might as well be staring at the wall. She would have been if she had happened to turn the other way, and the result would have been the same. She had to finish the cup of water before the reflex-return would give her coffee, tea or bakka. One stayed hydrated better all day if a complete glass of water was consumed before any caffeinated or risomed beverage. When she finished and put the mug back, a soft soothing voice spoke into the air, “it is so much easier not to have to make decisions like whether or not to actually consume the water.” She rolled her eyes. Who even cares? She considered if the rolling eyes indicated annoyance and decided it was not enough to code.

She hit the boost key of her System and the Systemface was filled with information. Her vitals were fine, her sleep pattern had been normal. She squinted at the Systemface. Jade. Her name was Jade today. The System assigned them randomly with divergences that were supposed to be interesting and mood producing. Today she was a stone, or a color. Yesterday she had been named Cinnamon, a smell and a spice. She kind of liked Jade, but it didn’t particularly peek her interest as it was supposed to. When it came right down to it, there just was not much that did. Of course, this was also true of everyone she knew. Despite The System’s many built in interest boosters and curiosity-keys, no one was the least bit interested in anything. The Systemface informed her that for breakfast she had a choice of orange or grapefruit juice, faux-bacon or sausage-style-protein-links; egg substitute scrambled or baked and a fresh fruit. Jade felt the small stirring of interest. She immediately did what she had been taught, she relaxed, not chasing after the small, blooming feeling, but giving it chance to occur, if it would. After a suitable waiting period, she realized that no interest had emerged. Still, it had been a stirring, the first new one she had been able to record outside of work for - well, longer than she could remember. She reached for a keying block and quickly keyed in: Class 7, Stirring Interest, nothing positive produced, possibly due to the absence of pineapple, which turned out not to be a choice. She knew that tomorrow she would be offered pineapple, by then, of course, it wouldn’t interest her at all. She pushed the buttons for orange juice, faux bacon, baked egg substitute and blue berries, then went to get dressed.

There was a fairly large selection of clothes to chose from on the bedroom Systemface. She knew it was calculated to be the exact number gaged to spark interest without becoming overwhelming. She felt nothing as she chose a long, dark blue skirt and a light blue shirt. They would be delivered to the bathing room along with pale blue underwear and blue leather shoes. .

Thirty minutes later she was at work, sitting behind her console, checking numbers, readying for a Psi-launch. One of Jade’s three elective hobbies was ancient film and literature. She found it amazing that in all the ancient film recovered, when travel in the future was considered, it was always time and space travel; moving the personal body through space to another place. Even vast distances were done with this same basic conception. Could it possibly have really been the only thing the ancients knew? Jade hit the macro on her finger recorder to add another count to this same interest. It seemed to be one of several that she delivered again and again, the same thing over and over with nothing new.

A voice spoke into the room, a well modulated male voice with which she was very familiar. She didn’t know who the voice belonged to, but she had never wondered. At the same time as they were spoken, the words appeared on the Systemface in front of her. “Our destination today was provided by the Ancient Data Commission, being part of a Realized-Recovery of ancient files found in Area B-9 Blue, Sector 3-12, the desert section of what was once the United American Empire. Please peruse each destination carefully and choose your first three preferences. Should anything you see evoke a state of interest, negative positive or neutral, be sure to note this in your System and engage the Immediate-Notification key. This destination collection is classified as A-129/878/.3905K. The use name is “PAUL” as this is the word that the ArcheoSystem Section found in the ancient machine, evidently identifying these images. finished

When you have keyed your choices, please light the red conclusion-button. After a tabulation of preferences is finalized we will announce our destination and commence our journey almost immediately. Please be sure that your packs and your traveling clothing have been checked by both a Class-A Examination Specialist and a Journey-Specific Official. Begin perusal: Now.” There was a soft chime.

Jade began to bring up the images on her Systemface. They were extremely beautiful and she knew that she would be recording interest marks before she had finished. Her high ability to access interest was the reason that she had this job, one of the most preferred in the complex. It did seem that most of her interest marks were macro’s - repeats of an interest already stated, but that didn’t matter. Macro marks counted just as much as an original, though that had never made much sense to Jade.

As she pulled up picture after picture she was struck once again by the fact that these were not photocatch pictures. These were made by ancient humans. Some of them were done on those very primitive Systems, but some were actually made by hand, with paint. They did not copy a photocatch, another painting or something they were looking at with their eyes. These beautiful images came from out of their own minds. Once again her own mind was touched with an amazement, a deep awe, an awe that felt delicious and creamy inside her head. How was that kind of recording possible? How could they create a place from inside their own heads? Jade recorded her interest on a macro that already held many hits. With three extra key clicks she recorded something beyond elementary interest. How was it possible that the ancients could not journey to these places, and yet they could create them? She looked up to the front of the room where there was a large working of the word in thin, intricate metal. Here at Ancient Liaison to Modern Knowledge this was their ultimate goal. Truthfully, it was the goal of everyone working at this Complex of Advanced Learning. It was possible that it was the ultimate goal of everyone who studied, learned and constantly tried to understand. CREATE. How was it done? Why was it begun? How did it develop? Where did it come from? And most importantly . . .

Where did it go?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

OK Paul! Do you want to pick it up from here, do a bit and send it back?

gauntlet

Shall we go on a journey through your incredible picture collection?

There is THE GAUNTLET almost upon your toe! Will you retrieve it?

Tags:

Senior Deliquent & Who Came to Breakfast?

http://LightDancing.gaia.com — Wed, 28 May 2008 10:48:50 GMT

This is a message to everyone who I owe a letter or who might have of wondered if I had fallen of the face of the Gaia. Strange things are afoot.

Last week I was so bad I couldn’t sit up most days and didn’t even get to the computer. It got to the point I was afraid that they would come in one day and I would be gone. There would be just a lump of pain sitting there - kind of a viscous, mucilaginous glob the color of rotten meat - differing colors of grey and brown with green accessories. It would be throbbing, a constant low beating sound that went up everyone’s nostrils and made them hold their heads. Someone would gasp, “WHAT have you done with our Dryad?!” and there would be this huge, gross, satisfied belch.

My insomnia thinks that it is still in charge. I have, however, also been sleeping; often 18 hours at a time. I've decided to view this as a good thing. A glass 3/4 full instead of 1/4 empty. Until someone tells me differently: it is not some new die-ease, but just my body trying to get with the program and get me well. I have been walking on my new Nordic track and going upside down on my new inversion table. Eternal blessings to Rapunzel (Jeannie) for telling me how well they work and encouraging me to get one. It actually hurts really bad right now, but I can feel the spine stretching and lengthening, so the disks (who mistakenly believe they are balloons) will slide back into place. Like any exercise, I am getting less sore every time I use it.

I have also been hit with a huge creative surge. Unfortunately, said creative surge, was not accompanied by sudden magical organizational skills. Its almost the opposite. I’ll be going along doing something and suddenly get a great new idea. Then I run off and start something else. I try to go back to what I was doing before, just when I get started working again, I remember I HAD to tell someone something . . .

So while I finish the six letters that are started . . .the three paintings . . . the one huge collection I’ve been working on for months . . . and, Oh yeah! Those new Boards over at Play Pod that everyone has begun to believe are fictional . . . I thought I’d put this up. It is titled “Who Came To Beakfast?" It started out being "Breakfast With Seuss." Then I looked up and there was Salvador Dali playing with the marmalade. I actually had it up here and ready to post when Henri Matisse stuck his head out of the kitchen and said, "Isn't there any coffee? Did VanGogh put it ALL in the paint?" It’s kind of like those “Find It” Pictures that used to be in Highlights Magazine. Anyone remember that? This is what I did while I was supposed to be doing all of the above.

Is there such a thing as a Senior Senior Deliquent?

WHO CAME TO BREAKFAST?

Who Came to Breakfast

Tags: Missing, Strange Things are Afoot, Lump of Pain-Burping, Insomnia/Sleep, Inversion Table, Blessings to Rapunzel, Creative Surge, Senior Deliquent, Who Came To Breakfast?