Stuff you learn, and unlocking a metaphor

The 'Gifting Apple Tree' on the Prairie Front in December, 2018

We were at a party the other night. A dark and stormy night for a party, but this is the Pacific Northwest and rain is a usual and natural player when it comes to winter. I cooked up a big pot of rice and nettles sprinkled with toasted sesame seeds a little salt and more dried nettles. I carried the blue enamel pot and Pete carried the brand new stainless steel shovel he'd bought. The enamel pot joined a table of potluck, the shovel would be raffled off after dinner.

When we arrived on Whidbey Island almost nine years ago, joining folks in a house for a party was not a doable activity. MCS makes adjusting to the many fragrances, scents and products worn on people or used in a normal house a very tricky situation if you take on the challenge at all. Over the years my health and tolerance as well as my yearning to be with people has changed. I have learned to ask for what I need; learned that sometimes my requests are received with understanding and accommodation; and equally as often find people cannot or will not see the need to change and don't.

The holiday gathering had some history for us, we'd been to this house before and the hosts Marc and Anza accommodate my health needs by not burning a fire or candles for the occasion. Their choices are much appreciated, and truly we don't take those actions for granted.

"We built our Vardo for Two -- a safe bedroom with electricity, but no plumbing or cooking space -- to be part of an envisioned community where our way of life and our disabilities and sensitivities become understood and embraced; by befriending time, we have found how long it takes to give-and-take and create understanding and shared resources..."

We were in the company of the latest "envisioned community" who have allowed us to experiment with their culture. For the past year we have plugged into a power source for the golden wagon and use the kitchen and one of the two South Whidbey Tilth rest rooms. It has been a steep learning curve of thirteen months and just a few days ago we received a letter saying the present Volunteers-In-Resident agreement is not working out. The shared kitchen and bathroom has become a sore spot for some members. Change is afoot.

So that shared vision for our lives from a golden wagon began in 2008? It needs an upgrade. Pete and I have begun looking at our next moves. Here's something that has been tickling my imagination and sense of unfolding possibilities. It's this week's astrological navigation for Scorpio (that would be me) from Freewill Astrology by Rob Brezsny.

"The body of the violin has two f-shaped holes on either side of the strings. They enable the sound that resonates inside the instrument to be projected outwardly. A thousand years ago, the earliest ancestor of the modern violin had round holes. Later they became half-moons, then c-shaped, and finally evolved into the f-shape. Why the change? Scientific analysis reveals that the modern form allows more air to be pushed out from inside the instrument, thereby producing a more powerful sound. My analysis of your life in 2019 suggests it will be a time to make an upgrade from your metaphorical equivalent of the c-shaped holes to the f-shaped holes. A small shift like that will enable you to generate more power and resonance."

Do you see how Brezsny's analysis would tickle my imagination given the timing of recent events in our lives?

When we built Vardo for Two in 2008, the shape and the vision for a life was truly the earliest ancestor of 'a new kind of home' for us based on our understanding of how a mysterious illness would make our life different. Who I was before I became chemical sensitive changes over time, one day at a time one experience at a time, time and again. This was the violin with round holes experience.

Vardo for Two in the early stages, November, 2008

We have moved and lived with old friends. We have moved from that arrangement. Those friendships have changed and aren't the same since we moved into their settled cultures. I consider the Violin Metaphor and see the metaphor playing itself out, our Violin playing out through those half-moon holes. 'Ole Phase Moons. Folding in our growing familiarity with the Hawaiian Moon Calendar, the 'Ole Phases of the Moon (those that appear as near half moons) are times to reconnoiter: weeding a garden that needs to be tended, repair nets if you are fisherfolk, and considering the shape of our puka (holes) in the instrument that is ... our life.

At this point, as 2018 by the Gregorian Calendar closes down, and the Hawaiian Moon Calendar moves into a new malama or month, but already into the New Year, I see the shape of the sound- producing puka in need of the f-shaped holes. Two of them!


Back to the party ... one conversation I had brought up meaningful and thought-provoking exchanges. I'm just beginning to know this woman. She is relatively new to the South Whidbey Tilth community and a very active and participatory gal. I began the conversation by asking about her sister. She is on a trip. Australia. Visiting family there. "She travels a lot," she said about her sister.

"I used to travel a lot, too. But now I don't," that was enough to fuel more conversation. It eventually led to talk about my son, and her daughter.

"I never knew you had a son."

"He's forty-five," I said. He's actually forty-six, but close enough.

Her daughter is much younger and there was room for learning more stuff about a new-to-me acquaintance.

Eventually the subject of past careers came up and my former career of twenty years in the corporate world surprised her. She reads this blog, and it is far from being a corporate culture I describe here or anywhere I blog. When I made the change of career direction it was a Uranus-infused revolution of 'work'. It has not been quick, but it has been interesting and broadly transformative. An f-shape to a once circular life. A living example of the Violin Metaphor!

That conversation brought up unexpected tendrils of next options. Hearing myself tell that corporate life story again, one that I lived, fills me with excitement to know change has a very surprising shape to it. Being open to be surprised helps a lot. 

We have moved and lived with people we had never known, and stayed to learn a lot about MCS, shared space, willingness to change, and honing the quality of a kind and authentic life. Another astrologer, Elsa Panizzon poses a few questions to consider. I like the structure the questions as she frames it in the context of long-term plans, the planet Saturn and maturation.Saturn plays a big part in the way I ponder and plan.

"When Saturn transits natal Saturn, invariably a person feels pressured.  It’s a reality check. How are you doing in your life? More specifically, how are you maturing?

(Update 1/8/2019: I have removed those questions from the blog post as Pete and I answer them behind the scenes and will begin meeting with others to see what options show up.)

Combining the two pieces of astrological insight -- reality checks and unlocking a metaphor-- Pete and I have some mulling and considering to do as we fashion the new shape of our life. There's more to come, conversation has begun to explore our future F-shaped puka of power.

The next few weeks will be a time of continued change. Our vision and our actions are in process ... reshaping.  I'm following an impulse to gather open-minded collaborators for LUNCH @ the Safety Pin Cafe with folks who have thoughts and ideas for helping with those F-shaped holes.

P.S. I'm adding another astrological nudge from one of my favorite Star Sista, Satori, who had this to say for the week beginning today: 

 "Let a little magic simmer. Don’t be too quick to examine everything for flaws. Mercury moves into square with Chiron and trine to Uranus (exact Thursday night). Don’t rush to judgement on the details that jangle if they’re not a current problem. Don’t get bogged down in minutia. Brainstorm and communicate. Perhaps these details are ripe for rearrangement into something greater, something not yet considered"

I'm reading a great new book The Magicians by Lev Grossman which fuels this "let a little magic simmer". Every little bit counts. The magic, I mean! Oh I believe.

Any thoughts; would you like to join us for LUNCH? 

Happy New Adventurous Year 2019!

The Holy Moly Days, Molly

December 25th is a sweet day that began knowing our son was safely tucked under all the warm clothes and bedding we could gather. A friend has loaned us her cot and the kitchen heater works after four days of electrical power outage. Those amenities: the instant gratification of heat at the twist of a dial, and a place to sleep. Expectations. Oh how we do expect them.

Christopher is outside now puttering with his hunting gear, Pete is seated beside me playing with his new beard, and the bright sunshine and rousing acrobatics of Birds at high level morning excitement has moved the day ahead.

We chopped and baked and cooked up a delicious omelet of mushrooms, mizuna, leeks and lox. Slices of oven toast rosemary focaccia and thick slices of bacon were our Holy Moly Brunch. Our niece Molly sent us homemade marmalade and a tin of cookies. The marmalade made it all the way through the day, but the cookies?

 

 

Yesterday, we left the Island early and caught the 5:00 am ferry for a drive/ride to the airport to pick up our son. It was one of the smoothest sail and drive entry into the Holy Moly Days of this year coming to an end. The traffic was light, and the longest wait we had was in the Cellphone Lot at the airport as Christopher waited to pick up his bags. 

We stopped for breakfast at Easy Street in West Seattle and had a fine and funky time with the city folk who work and eat in this Record Store-Eatery that's been on the corner of California Ave since 1988. 

Once we'd filled up on food and stories, gossip and strategies we were off and back onto the freeway headed north for the ferry again. It was still early morning. The Hawaii traveler was out like our lights were after the big winds, Pete was our steady UBER driver, and the mom in the big red storm coat sighed huge sighs as the Holy of the Moly Days unfurled.

Once back on Whidbey we headed into Langley to stock up for that brunch we would eat, and on the way we trailed a couple goats on leashes. Usual company in a rural town. And stopped for some eye candy at the traders' shop Music for the Eyes. There are a billion things to see, touch and play with and rings are among the treasures you can find. Last week we were in Music for the Eyes to be entertained by the Altai Kai the throat singers from the Republic of Altai.

What a trip. What a treat that was. My throat chakra and my Mongol ancestry was definitely tuned up after the hour of throat massage packed into the cozy den with a full house of fans. It's amazing what can be done when the message and the media (throat singing in a tiny space) press on the holy and the joy that is more than constricted old scales of limitation.

For sunset we headed for Double Bluff for a very awesome beach walk, playing with the sticks climbing over logs, skipping stones and hefting heavy things (that would be the boys at play) and basically having a great and simple fun time with each other. Take a gander at this.

We have a few days to be together, the three of us, so we'll be making hay while the holy and the moly remind us these are the presents that matter.

When I get to frett'n
About things out of hand
I hope I'll remember
These holy
These moly
These holy, moly
Days.

Yes. A reason to keep these blog posts coming: a place to set down the present that matters.

 It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.

Krishna Murti

We survive and thrive and keep lusty even when rusty. Happy Holy Moly Days!

xoxo Moki and Pete

Pockets, Patches and Pins

It is not uncommon for me to lose something ... my keys, the old fliptop cellphone -- in one of my pockets. I mostly wear things with pockets because I feel lost without them. On a cold day I could be wearing a pair of pants with two pockets; a hoodie with two more pockets; an extra jacket with two pockets; and a windbreaker with four pockets. 

If it is a usual day my busy mind and long-distance treks that take us from wagon to kitchen, or kitchen to cubby, or wagon to chicken coop easily forgets that I have tucked my key into one of those pockets. Like shifting your glasses onto your head and forgetting. The hunt for something safely stowed into a pocket can be material for a silly everyday comedy. Or, on one of the dark and dastardly days when rain turns pathways to streams, on days only a duck could love things lost in pockets could be a form of damnation. Oh woe. Oh no.

But I have been rescued from any sort of mash of guilt about stowing goods or keys in pockets: I have found Mrs. Noah's Pockets. The beautifull pictures and comforting words of this book are a gift of such delight, and hope.

Give a look, and listen to Jackie Morris tell and read part of her book.

I too aspire to be like Mrs. Noah.

It's a good thing there is room for needles, pins, threads and scraps of fabric in my life. Mrs. Noah knew about the importance of work women do, making spaces and places for those more troublesome creatures. Piecing together a pair of soft corduroy pants I bought the same year we began building our Vardofortwo but never wore because they didn't fit, this winter I pulled those pants out of the scrap bag. A long strip was missing from one of the legs. I'd cut that out to add to a vest that I had outgrown (grown too thick in the middle). The vest has since been handed down to Pete who does not need the extra girth. But now? Now I needed the soft and warm corduroy pants for those dark and dastardly cold and wet windy winter treks.

A length of wine-sort wide wale corduroy has patched many other good-enough-to-save pants. If you know me you might have noticed them covering knees or trimming the wallet Pete carries in his back pocket. Here it is again covering up the slice of leg on my right side.

The smaller pieces are whimsy. Small blocks off of a very old and favorite curtain that hung in our Manoa Valley cottage. Since then the cotton print has been cut down to be the window curtain over the golden wagon's French door window; cuffs of still another worn but still usable shirt are trimmed with memories of wavy lines and pieces of swimmers (fish) still making their way onto patchwork.

As I piece together this post my long-worn turquoise coat is held together at the front with a safety pin. The zipper no longer functions as it used to and I have chosen not to replace it for that is a major work of disassembly to replace it. Instead, my mother's fastener of choice works just fine. And, since I'm on a thread that leads to my Ma's bit of common magic it's fun to revisit the medicine and story that begins The Safety Pin Cafe.

"In letters like liquid copper I read The Safety Pin Cafe. Ravens black and shiny as if dipped in wet ink sat in the panes of the windows out-lined and sparkling with fairy lights. "Against the seasonal darkness, the trick is to tickle the light from its hiding places," that was coming from the woman on the other side of the window panes. I smiled as I recognized a Muse and reached for the crystal door knob and pushed the front door open. The smell of warm cinnamon toast and hot milk filled my nostrils."

I'm really on my way up the hill and into the golden wagon to another little writing space where I have begun to patch work a long story begun many years ago. I'm really telling myself this little tale and being fed on Mrs. Noah's Pocket so I can pull the troublesome and oddly beautiful stories that want to be stitched together. My cup of Irish Breakfast tea is cool now; the oatmeal mixed with nourishing pumpkin seeds and chunks of pear still warm enough to gift me smooth comfort.

I'm really warming up to the task priming the pump and the joy factor of the work of an artist-in-residence, tickling the fears out from hiding with gentle coaxing. My pockets are ever ready for filling with nonsense and passing thoughts that may get lost, or maybe not. Between here and there the patches make a story new and old, together. Safety pins? They show up when you least expect them and aren't we glad for their efficiency.

We're all artist-in-residence I think, don't you, too? I'd love to hear how you fill your pockets, patch your life or your still wearable masquerades over a cup of tea, while nibbling something delicious or sharing email conversation. Please leave a comment, tack on a message or send a note in a bottle or around the leg of a carrier pigeon. I do so love the company of your art!

xo Moki

P.S. They're calling for a big storm coming through: wind, and maybe rain. The rain is here so best I send this story out and tuck it into one of Mrs. Noah's pockets. ~~~💖

Givings and Receivings

The roar of traffic is constant outside the shelter of this kitchen. If I concentrate the sounds are almost discernible: the rubble versus the pitch distinguishes the big white trucks from the sedans. But, I blurr the sounds and consider the assembly of words to go with the pictures here. 

Earlier today we joined that traffic for a trip into town. There were small and precious envelopes filled with lovely hand-picked cards and trinkets, talismans and whimsy. A few giveaways made it into the postal flow; the first wave of gifts to be sent on their way. 

One of the big firs who lives on the prairie, the one that nestles the cement drinking fountains the Birds love, has been trimmed for the season. With fleece hats made by our friend Dikka; holidays booties sent from our family in Waimanalo; and colorful socks gifted at a December giveaway party make for a colorful reminder of giving and receiving.

 Beach time dressed for the cold but sunny (that day) December we leaned into one of our favorite Grandmothers.

 The Apple-Blended 'Gifting Tree' has and is just that, a gift giver. For weeks now the red and orange-yellow fruit has fed Feathered, Footed and Hoofed ones. Le Petite Red Delicious Apples. Small and Yummy. We receive them with gratefulness, and leave some on the ground for the Others.

"Someday you’ll have nostalgia for this year. Keep that uppermost in your thoughts."

- Satori

The Witching Hour to be There

It's the Witching Hour, into midnight and not yet tomorrow I woke to the sound of rain/the wind he stay pau/my dreams they said oh wow/and den I need some mo'a/some someting to clear up the so'a.

I put on my slippahs/nah, I put on my rubbah (boots yay)/cuz dis is not dat/my honey was waiting/he sat wit his cap.

Da Dell was stay playing/Grover Washington yet/I told em I had dat album/Way back in the day/Yay, once had pleny vinyl/Yay, once had pleny pleny.

It's the Witching Hour, and dis post is da tunes and the Cruz(es) who was playing/Playing livestream from the place ovah where?/ Over where no need rubbah boots/Okay nuff rappin'

The music. John Cruz and his bruddahs.
The where? Kaimuki Town. O'ahu. (That was home when I was a tiny little baby.)
The fan supported style. Patreon.com/hisessions
This is how things can happen. Just happened at ...
It's the Witching Hour. The between time.


Astrologically speaking:

"Venus in Scorpio is closing its sextile to Saturn in Capricorn, water to earth. This takes place Sunday morning, though it applies keenly all weekend. Fill what’s empty; empty what’s full. It takes place with Pluto and Juno in trine, auspicious for lasting transformation and power in commitment. Agreements last – even if they’re just with yourself.

Venus sextile Saturn brings opportunity to solidify values, capitalize on stability, make an investment that pays off – pay off on an investment. It can also be good old, plain, deep, delicious, lasting love. Or pleasure! It looks like good things for the ones who do the work.

But if you did the work and don’t see results, don’t despair. It comes in time."

When I listen to the music of John Cruz, and hear the humor of lyrics in "Dis fly going die," I know what I miss. I know what is empty and I yearn to fill it. Astrology offers me a big and potent desire to be back there.

Without over analysis and logic-only I wish (emotion-driven) to live my Maui hay days few and glorious years where I invested in solidifying new values; new love in the making. "Agreements last -- even if they're just with yourself," writes Satori. The agreement at this point is with myself and the Full and empty transformation is still in the works. I'm bewitched, again. The results aren't what I want, but I've just let myself imagine Maui. "if you did the work and don't see results, don't despair. It comes in time."

Okay.

Twinkle is a different sort of star

Tomorrow there's an event taking place on the West side of O'ahu which marks a huge (Jupiter) and progressive fundraising milestone for the people of Hawaii and especially the residents of Pu'uhonua o Wai'anae.. Here's the email and invitation I received:

Aloha,
Weʻre  excited to invite you to celebrate a major campaign milestone for us next Friday.
On December 14, Aloha Lives Here will join Twinkle Borge, other Puʻuhonua o Waiʻanae residents to celebrate a huge moment in our fundraising efforts. At our event, Twinkle will accept a generous check of $150,000 from the REIT Foundation to help The Village buy land for their future home.
Click here to RSVP to join us at the REIT Foundationʻs check presentation to Twinkle and The Village. The event starts at 10:30AM on Friday, December 14.
The REIT Foundationʻs gift will immediately be matched by anonymous donors, doubling their gift. This means that on this day we will have raised more than $300,000!
We will have coffee and some light refreshments. Please RSVP, and join us in celebration and in thanking the REIT Foundation and our other generous donors.


Mahalo,
The Aloha Lives Here volunteer crew

Twinkle Borge is interviewed in the YouTube below.  I found the interview early this morning, seated at the tall bar stool that puts me at the keys. The wind has howled through the night and only now is settled into his elemental form somewhere else. Across the highway roofers are on a newly being built home; we hear the rhythmic tempo of the pneumatic (air) staple gun. "Glad they didn't do that yesterday," Pete was giving working man know-how commentary. "All of it (the roofing) would be over here."

Housing. Shelter. Home.They name similar situations, but bring up such different images.


We won't be able to join Twinkle and her community, but what I can do is witness and put the action here because? Because it demands my attention to ways meaningful change can happen. I listen to the tita, the Hawaiian woman who has committed to her personal and community healing.

The question of ownership was raised early in the interview. "You folks are PO'E KUEWA.You don't own this place...you folks came over... " Twinkle interrupted, "We had permission," Twinkle makes the facts clear, "I don't look at us being trespassers." The permission to be. What a touchy state to live out. What a touchy reality to live out with kindness. Do you have permission to be? In an island world, a island nation that draws people to her tiny buildable environs to retire, to enjoy the tropical conditions and the inimitable culture and buy property what happens to the people who were born there, can't afford to live there, but don't want to leave?


What has evolved on the Waianae Coast of O'ahu, and Pu'uhonua o Waianae is a present day collaboration of 'structure' -- home, house, shelter -- defined from the ground up. Literal examples of a long story with a beginning, middle and ending being told where life is happening; and the way Twinkle communicates serves the people by engaging the energy of the whole/holy sum of all parts.

I listen to her answers and hear a grounded experience of having come through the huli, the upheaval, of life before and after using. "I'm clean ten years now," Twinkle says. She wasn't when she first arrived on this place of refuge on the Western O'ahu shore. She leads by example today and has a team of eleven wahine, women, who are her alaka'i. They are the combined force, the leadership for a village of nearly three hundred.

The REIT Foundation has donated $150,000 to 'buy land for the Pu'uhonua o Waianae future home.' Anonymous donors are matching that money. Just who and what the REIT Foundation is about came as a surprise to me. I'm still researching the foundation's kuleana (purposely using the Hawaiian word here, to give me space to weave meaning)  because collaborations is a process I have so much to understand; trusting collaboration is the big resistance for me. To be honest I need to allow for windows of opportunity, and move/revolutionize some of my fixed nature. Astrologically, that means I need to call on my native Uranus energy in my 6th House of Community to blast open a window, like the winds that have done here, if that's what is needed.

Twinkle, Twinkle little star how I wonder what it will take to hitch to the energy of your efforts to bridge meaningful collaborations for pu'uhonua (places of safety) for people where they are. Leading from the ground, the makaai'nana, those with their eyes on the ground have a contemporary model of making the story fit the characters who are living it.

Once upon a time in a place not so far away was a star, a different sort of start. Dis is one story fo get your head, and grab your gut. Listen to Twinkle.

How's dat Lili'uokalani? I think she'd be proud to be there tomorrow.

You ought to treat a stranger right, and Remembering Uncle Bill

This weekend my Amona 'ohana will gather at the chapel, literally, on the side of Kapalama Heights on the island of O'ahu. My Uncle Bill, youngest brother of my Ma Helen Mokihana has passed after a long and interesting life. Pete and I cannot journey back to O'ahu to share in the grief and the celebrating. There are somethings we cannot change. What I can do is remember. And what I can do is write my way through. 

I left O'ahu to be a stranger in a new land, Washington state; the valley for raising my new family and a son would change from Kuli'ou'ou on O'ahu to Smuggler's Gulch in Mukilteo. A foreigner was I and the culture would remain strange to me for many years. 

Strange and funny how the way through life is planned with the information we have at the time; all the best of intentions and expectations map the journey. How little we really know but it's the Greater Creator who has the whole plan and that one reveals itself in time. I left Hawaii because ... well, in one form or another I was destined to voyage and get entangled with foreigners and become one myself in the process. The stars and astrological maps pointed to a Venus (wants) and Jupiter (dreams and expansiveness) in the House of Strangers (the 11th). Never mind that you may not understand the astrology, I bet there is a bit of adventureress in every one of us to know the feel of that spark.

After I wrote the small story of memories for my Uncle Bill, I put it onto the Cloud Page and went for a walk. Another like sugar-frosted Maple Leaf morning welcomed me to the place I live. As I took the Coyote Trail through the Oak Forest my tears came to clear the way, releasing the sadness that lives in the non-logical and emotion rich place of being alive.

Most nights the big white dog whose job is to signal his presence: "I am watching you!" he says with his constant barking. He is there to keep Coyotes, coyote who is always hungry, from eating the wooly sheep in Susan's field. All night the big white dog barks, interrupting our dreams and rattling my comfort. 

When I walk the Coyote Trail I see where they have been the night before. "Did you ask permission?" Pete asked me when I told him of my walk. "No," insulant as that. Coyote never asks permission. 

The New Moon, rising with the sunrise there is a time in the cycle of Moon and Sun and Earth to set intentions for living and being. As I sit enveloped in my freshly-washed Big Red storm coat I gathered a story here to create an intention: "You ought to treat a stranger right." Below are two musical YouTubes. The first with an old and favorite Ry Cooder singing live in studio, "Everbody Ought to Treat a Stranger Right." Solid message, an aged and mellow ardent Ry Cooder. 

Below is an 1974 YouTube of The Gabby Pahini Band on the island of Hawaii, with a band of such dearly loved Hawaiian musicians many who have passed to the other side of the musical threshold. When this music was originally recorded I was a young wife and mother living in Smuggler's Gulch. I lived with this music on old vinyl and all the emotions of a human living enfolded me. Year in. Year out. The longing so thick and sweet.

And to honor and remember that all of us are strangers and all of us remember. I leave the memories of Uncle Bill in this small story to thank him for his long and interesting life.


Our Ma, Helen Mokihana was Uncle Billy's older sister.

When life was tough and I was not, I remember:

Presents showed up for Christmas: my first bicycle (a black and white from Sears, called "Warrior"; a carry-around phonograph player.

Dark nights and scary times: Uncle Billy showed up in his big car to take us away. We didn't leave. But Uncle came.

In day time hours I remember:

Uncle and the cement mixer on the sidewalk near the pool at the Kailua House.

All us dressed-up to walk around Kailua handing out "AMONA FOR ... "(can't remember what office he was running for) emery boards.

Catching bus with my Ma to go downtown just in time to go to Uncle's office at lunchtime so we could go eat Pake food with them.

Reading a letter Ma kept written by Uncle Bill to the principal at Niu Valley Intermediate School supporting my brother David ... pointing out the discrimination David was living with because they judged him harshly.

Uncle Bill asked me when I returned to Hawaii after I divorced, "What is it you do?" I said, "I write stories." He said, "Then you must write."

When my Brother David was in the hospital and I could not fly back to be with him, Jenny (David's wife) told me Uncle Billy was there long into the evening hours. They talked story. He held vigil for David. He told stories about himself; how much he loved his dog; he wanted to be a veterinarian.

I think now about the stories we believed were true but weren't. As I once again realize I can not fly back to be with family to share in the grief of Uncle Billy's passing, or celebrate Uncle's long and interesting life by hearing the stories others tell of him ... I write this, send it along, and hope this is enough.

Mahalo nui from all us Uncle Billy and Aunty Lydia,

Yvonne, "Honey's girl"

Uncle Bill, William Ho'omealani Amona

No accident this Nature

This morning's moon rise and the companionship of Venus and a sister star gave me so many reasons to appreciate my old and still healthy eyes. It's good to see!

We spent most of yesterday in Seattle; I had a late afternoon eye appointment; we hoped a local restaurant supply store would have a replacement hot plate for the one that is limping along; and then, an annual holiday gathering of friends was scheduled for early evening.

There were no options worth buying at the store. But the eye exam was the best sort of physical I could envision: "Your vision's been stable for awhile, still is." Said the white coated doctor. "We like to look for things like glaucoma, cataract and macular degeneration at this age. You have no signs of any of these! Great news," he added, and then asked, "Do you have any questions for me?" I did. "I'm wearing a pair of lenses prescribed to me probably twenty years ago. Will it harm anything if I just keep wearing them?" I really liked his answer,"If they work: don't give you head aches and you do well with them, don't change a thing."

I told him how the last pair of glasses I bought from his optical center had turned cloudy and "fractured." The optician explained that there was probably a small crack and the lens just went whacko (not her words) from any small exposure to heat or steam (like from cooking). "Technology doesn't always mean things get better," she was not offering to compensate for the crapware of current products and the issue wasn't worth more discussion.

So I will continue to wear my old glasses and pay even better attention to keeping them in good shape. A low-income budget functions nicely when old eyes are not in need of more maintenence than we can afford. And I'm grateful.

An evening of conversation, gathering for food and a circle of sharing both story and things we each no longer needed or wanted was fun. We age. We grow, we mend slowly in some cases and the laughter and queries we banter across the round makes for memories; traditions are made by showing up. These are friends who cared for us when I was diagnosed with MCS ten years ago. We watched the sunset over the Salish Sea from a home overlooking Ballard, and have to say the city is beautiful though oh so very stimulated and paced for those who are more used to the intensity.

Whew, by the time we boarded the late evening ferry we both exhaled a sigh of relief for the simple nature of our small golden wagon and the companionship of a shared kitchen, a warm bathroom and open skies with big weather to live with.

I took a walk after breakfast and mugs of hot tea. Hover over the images for a description, or musings.

We travel to the city
Our car
A personal
Time capsule.

Tent cities
Within
The City
Shelters.

From the comfort
Of brick
And glass
Clean floors ...

We travel within the city
Our lives
A personal
Time capsule.

Sending prayers of common good for those in tents, in parking lots and comfortable heated houses leaving space for our Nature to be no accident.

How much can we share, even if it is uncomfortable? Read the link in the question, and think about it. I'd love to know how you feel.

Some words to tune my weather veins

"All over the world the life of rocks, ice, mountains, snow, oceans, islands, albatross, sooty gulls, whales, crabs, limpets, and guanaco once flowed up into the bodies of the people who lived in small hunting groups and villages, and out came killer-whale prayers, condor chants, crab feasts, and guanaco songs. Life went where there was food. Food occurred in places of great beauty, and the act of living directly fueled people’s movements, thoughts, and lives. Everything spoke. Everything made a sound -- birds, ghosts, animals, oceans, bogs, rocks, humans, trees, flowers, and rivers -- and when they passed each other a third sound occurred. That’s why weather, mountains, and each passing season were so noisy. Song and dance, sex and gratitude, were the season-sensitive ceremonies linking the human psyche to the larger, wild, weather-ridden world....

"When did we begin thinking that weather was something to be rescued from?"

"Love life first, then march through the gates of each season; go inside nature and develop the discipline to stop destructive behavior; learn tenderness toward experience, then make decisions based on creating biological wealth that includes all people, animals, cultures, currencies, languages, and the living things as yet undiscovered; listen to the truth the land will tell you; act accordingly."

 Gretel Ehlrich; "Struck by Nature via Myth & Moor

Beautiful OTTER

Continuing with yesterday's post about the long story, long where I asked, "Do you find yourself with your people, and has Creator given you clues to find them? I heard from a long time friend. She wrote in answer to the question " ... my friend of young motherhood is here, you know her."  

We were friends first when both were young mothers and now we live on the same Island, one of us at the northwest shore the other on a southwest facing prairie. It is winter on this Island and that friend and her mate on the northwest shore are encasing her childhood dreams like Oyster secreting hard luster into a pearl. 

Once while Pete and I visited these friends on their northwest shore I heard stories of the inconvenience of Otter moving into the homes of humans. Along the shore the slippery swift swimmer could create ... inconvenience? I thought of that story as I listened and watched OTTER come to life on paper from pencil, pine soot, water and brush.

Click on the word OTTER, if you are needing the beauty of art, or a reminder of OTTER, or clues of magic.

Names of Otter Poster by Jackie Morris.

Beautiful. Art. Jackie Morris.

Rain spatters off roof edges while Mahina, the Moon, travels visible to others on our Planet home. We Hawaiian call these moon phases over the next three days and nights the 'Ole Moon -- a pause time, a refresh time, calling on calm and enjoying the beauty of wherever. 

'Ole Moon exhale for me.
I follow.

Aloha,
Moki

Wherever you go ...

It's early Monday morning, but I climbed into bed before Bruddah Ace ended his beautiful Da Coconut Wireless tribute to Cyril Pahinui. The Waimanalo-born Hawaiian slack key artist and beloved musician passed away of cancer a week ago at the age of 68. The music was old style, nahenahe sweet, just our kind of style and though I love the music, sometimes the memories that swarm from between the melodies are just too much for me to manage in large doses.

I've had several hours sleep. Last night's soup (veggie chowder with salmon) is warming on the burner. I've done my morning writing meditation and been to my favorite online sites already. The morning is well on the way.

A beautiful new to me print, Storyteller, drawn and watercolored by Rima Staines leans against the old flannel curtain. The deep colors and etched faces of a band of enchanted folk are listening to the storyteller who speaks in circles of ancient symbols. I note the details, as is so much of what Rima does with her work ... tucked in the details in full view ... leaving interpretation up to the receivers. I see the tattoo that marks the storyteller's chin; black marks that follow the curve of her timeless face, and recognize the repetition designs Maori-like markings curling above her head like a helmet. Tatau, tattoo. Rima is a woman of Devon in England's far southern elements, but her name and some of her story includes New Zealand, Aotearoa. I feel a kinship as a woman of the Pacific I am.

Storyteller by Rima Staines

The new print is a birthday present sent to me by my friend Joan. We have been friends for what three decades now? Sometime between my lifetime as nearly-divorced and newly-partnered we met and lunched on stacks of nachos and told our stories. The mythic times were still in-the-making when we first met. The Wherever you go-ness of our journeys still early in the simmering. Sending me the first pieces Rima Staines's art when Pete and I were building Vardo for Two was a knot, a reconnection -- a source of potential -- in my thread, a continuing journey that had no surety or guarantees. More was to come, but was I willing to live the future wildly?

Rima Staines would introduce me to the whirl of travelers, present-day wanderers building a home on wheels, carrying stories and feeding the wild god with their dreaming. An old friend watched my life unraveling and from the edges she offered me art as medicine: "Don't spit in the eyes of the Old Ones," she'd tell me more than once when I refuse to see the Universe's pictographs. "Write!"

To celebrate the gift, I write. I write my Friends, the Trees, the Birds, the Sounds, the Unlikely encounters into stories. I have written that gift-giving friend into the magic and medicine of stories to feed me when my faith faltered. As I take the slow and necessary steps to gather a collection of stories written when Pete and I were new to each other but so close to the old roots and ghosts of my childhood, I need to remember to live the myth. The medicine of story is in the wild edges where sense seems no sense and adapting to a sick society no measure of health (Kristamurti).

This is a post of gratitude and one to encourage belief in an unfolding path. Returning to Terri Windling's post "Trailing Story" and quotes from Martin Shaw:

"You know what it is: you have to let a story have its way with you. You can’t tell the story what it is. You learn to sit in the radiance of it until something comes from the story that disturbs you or bugs you or makes you happy, until you have to do something with it. "

Story is first. You have to be in the presence of the story, which I regard as a living being: it’s a wild animal; it’s got tusks, udders; it’s got a tail; it doesn’t behave; half the time you want it to be there it’s disappeared, it’s shuffled off somewhere else. Stories should be filled with so much consequence and danger, they won’t behave for your polemic."

When I was sitting on the floor writing my first blog posts in White Center, this bit of art arrived to open a vein in my frightened heart. Funny creature warming big feet by an open fire while telling stories to trees. Ha!?

Telling stories to trees by Rima Staines

 Looking over my shoulder, just a little, to those months spent sleeping on the floor of the White Center Kitchenette, building a home with no blueprint in a makeshift basement space ... the comforts of that present were often lost. If we didn't take time to appreciate where we were, I doubt we would have made it to our present Wherever.

Enjoying a late summer Sunday at the Farmers' Market, 2018

Astrologically Elsa P. sent her newsletter today and said this is a day in a week of much support. In an older post of reassurance Elsa entitled her musings, "Wherever You Go ... Your People Are There." It's a quirky and optimistic twist to "Wherever you go, you'll be there" or something similar. I like the story Elsa told. And, really love the heck out of the timing. That post was written in May, 2008 at about the same time Pete and I showed up in a basement kitchenette wondering what our story would do with us.

The long story is long. Do you find yourself with your people, and has Creator given you clues to find them?

Folding in potential, making chicken veggie soup

The moon is just past full and high in the sky as she moves into the west. A pot of early morning chicken and vegetable soup is perculating on the burner. It's a small but significant change to be cooking inside the shelter of the Tilth's kitchen. The loud old fan sucks on the steam from the blue enamel pot; smells escape its grasp and I can taste the melding of herbs, onions, and chicken legs. An evolving picture of how to share space and live by revolutionary definitions is not a quick fix. I suppose it's helpful that I love to cook and don't usually use a recipe. 

The big planets Neptune and Jupiter are offering up some joyful potential as they create a vaning, but promising future. Satori puts it this way:

"We no longer have that trine (the joyful potential); but what we do have is the ability to fold the essence of that supportive energy into our daily lives as we go forward and plot a brand new cycle of prosperity and joyous aspiration.

 A larger goal benefits once again from the connection that strengthens from having gone inside and melded with the source of our creativity."

Rains have come to the Pacific Northwest the ground is soaking in the wetness and once again I am grateful for rubber boots and the big red storm coat that makes it comfortable to be where I am. The fullness of living is rarely perfect and more often lumpy or bumpy. A message from a dear friend from California, where huge fires have wiped out homes and sent people into a spin of unexpected loss and pain raises the sadness quota. People are living in parking lots with no idea how or where to go from there. We have been there. The small comforts of dry feet and a warm coat are substantial when it comes right down to it.

We've been living this small and shareable life for ten years, and know what it feels like to live in parking lots. With the sound of the kitchen fan creating a constant hum and this hand-me-down laptop also working overtime to keep at her work, the reality of folding in the essence of supportive energy from sources greater than oneself seems primary.

When we lived in beach park parking lots at night alone and filled with uncertainty, it was the Moon, Mahina, rising out of the Makapu'u horizon that gave us hope for something. A new next, but there was no recipe for it. Not yet. There were many, many more times to come and we would need to go deep inside ourselves to find the way.

Astrology is a big picture kind of support and guidance from heavenly bodies is both metaphoric or symbolic while also giving a way through the daily challenges. For me, the astrological ingredients lift me out of hot water and into creative storytelling where I put myself and my situation into a soup I'd love to savor.

Yum ... the chicken soup is delicious, very hot and flavorful. Makes me think of this bit of soup that wrote itself into my life one winter when we lived in the woods.

"I was glad my kitchen included the large saimin bowls I'd found, and kept since Max and No'e were children. The sturdy restaurant ware held up with all the packing and unpacking of a lifetime with only minor chips. Like wrinkles I could account for every one of the nicks; a hasty washing, an angry morning of cold cereal and hot words. There were six bowls in all, I found two with no old wounds and set them on the drainboard. The egg noodles were nearly ready, just a second cup of cold water to cool them. I covered the old porcelain pot and dug in the frig for green onions.
"Can I help?" Max asked.
"Sure." I washed the tender onions and handed them to Max, noticing his incredibly large hands and thick fingernails. Not for the first time. He found a knife in the crockery pot where I stuck the cutlery and felt the edge.
"The sharpening stone," I pointed to the drawer. With long sure strokes Max honed an edge to that knife and all the others in the pot.
"Thank you," I kissed his cheek, and then added, "I have scissors that need it, too!"
"Don't do scissors." We laughed and Max finished trimming and chopping a cup of green onions in time to sprinkle over the now-drained noodles.
I served up a portion of noodles and green onions into our bowls, then ladled chunks of chicken, carrots, celery, and rosemary sprigs over the top. The aroma and the color of the stew warmed us and hid the rich noodles until we dug into them with chopsticks. Neither of us added additional seasoning though I had roasted sesame seed oil and a batch of freshly mixed Coleman's mustard. Max said a prayer of thanks, simple and quick. We ate mostly in appreciate silence, slurping the succulent stew until the last noodle slid slowly past our lips.
Continue to read here ... 

I've had my fill of a large bowl (and a bit more) of breakfast chicken soup with sweet potatoes, celery, onions chard and broccoli. A crisp pear tops my morning meal. The protein and vegetable start to my day is part of the Abascal Way that I try one day at a time to fold into my daily life. I need the simple yet different rules for this eating plan to calm the inflammation in me.  I've followed this eating plan very well for weeks, and then slide off into old habits and eating foods that make it difficult for my body to function well. Then, I get back on the way, and start today with a meal of protein and vegetables in the right proportions (no more than 50 percent protein and no starch or grains).

There's just enough structure to keep me in a possible to do discipline and I feel better when I eat this way. That helps alot, and this life we live benefits from as much 'feel better' times as possible. This story Pete and I are living seems to be one without a floor plan. The blueprint is drawn in pencil or in the imagination, and to ask for shareable spaces -- a kitchen, bathroom and a place to plug into the grid? Well, that takes a lot of negotiating without scaring our potential community away.

Our second winter here in this Shareable life on the Prairie Front is a story still unfolding. Are we meant to stay where we are? Or is there somewhere else this story wants to add? Terri Windling shared a post about finding story and I include a quote from mythographer and storyteller Martin Shaw here:

"First thing we gotta do is trail the stories not trap them," Martin answers. "If you trap a story, you’ve put it in a little allegorical cage where you pretend you know what it means. The moment you think you know what the story means from beginning to end, it’s lost its nutrition, it’s lost its protein, it’s lost its danger."

On this early morning in late November while the chicken meat and veggies meld in me in fine proportions, I send up a prayer to my Ancestors and Neptune and Jupiter asking for guidance in our story.

Creators of Cosmic Soup

I show up
With my pots and pans
Help me
With the seasoning


What's your soup like where you are?