I’m crossing the Straight of Dover today. Or the Straight of Calais. Depends on one’s perspective, right? I’m wondering why, of all companions I could have had, I chose Annika. After all, there aren’t hummingbirds in Europe. Who knows–maybe she just wanted to come along for the ride.
(more at http://mosaicheart.wordpress.com/)
From the vast expanse of my prairie world lying cold and dormant under a sun which has slid far south. Shortened days give way to lengthened nights where people huddle indoors in heated rooms or beside hearths filled with flames. Wrapped in a quilt, I prepare for my journey.
In my traveling case I will put
toiletries
a favorite hairbrush for the strokes that begin and end each day with the calming movement of hand and arm drawn over long tresses
a flannel nightgown
silk shirts and woolen pants and skirts
a hat
books, journal, a favorite pen
tea of many kinds: green for health; chamomile, mint, lemon, cinnamon spice for soothing companionship that suits time and mood
bits of fabric, trims, thread, needle, scissors to create a reflection of sights and insights
I’m sure I’ll think of more items as I mull this and plot my travel itinerary.
PrairieMuse
I stand on the barren Sea of Stones between the call of the sacred mountain and the mystic Valley of Whispers — hoping my singing will not awaken the Cabin dreamers. Trigor (silently cursing that WP messes up all formating) ……………………………………………………………………………………….
KARST DREAMS
I am but a leaf on that Tree, you know;
Proof of creation and humanity –
Gifted to pull energy from the sun
And caress it into bright green delight.
Then I can climb — dream of distant stars,
Claim each handhold on Trigor’s triple face
That would keep me within my directed space,
Though I stand in sharp contrast to the clouds.
But surely I must fall, now free in death
To lie unnoticed ‘midst the bitter stones
That deny my roots but forgive my birth
To be more than a weed, yet never bloom.
Down, down I slowly drift as softest snow
To brave cycle my drops of fervent dew
As tears for those who never had a chance,
Or still lie dormant in blue glacial fear.
Yet I hear laughter — a feel dancing mist,
To float in a tiny pool of spring –
Swirling, cleansing, praying for fulfillment
As I shake off the dust of earthly toil.
Then a throbbing pulse and spirit rushing
Transports me in steps of Seven Lakes
Of sunlight smiles and smoothest stones
To purify my vigil of awareness.
Oh, now to leap so free in timeless space,
Bound by faith and waiting depths of desire
To be one with all and send ripples forth
To join in song with a cascade of joy.
Gently I am kissed by flowered hints
Of still more life beyond perception;
A tumbling crash of chaos and mem’ries
Of a Source of simple innocence.
At last a place of peace and gentle rest
Where my last vestiges of humanity
Can molder away ‘neath Bohinj calm
’till rebirth in the fane Whispers of Kham.
I first posted this at the Hermitage last May. It seems appropriate for a Grand Tour. Here it is again, slightly revised and with a different image…..
Among the Ruins
When I think of ancient ruins, I think of those in other parts of the world, not the American Southwest; however, I was astonished one day, a number of years ago, when, on a lonely stretch of road in northern Arizona, we stumbled across the Wupatki ruins, a series of apartment-like dwellings estimated to be about 900 years old. Constructed of sandstone masonry on a plateau about fifty miles from the Grand Canyon, these dwellings may have sheltered as many as 30,000 people at one time. These buildings were probably inhabited by the Anasazi and Sinagua peoples, though no one really knows for sure. Similarly, no one is sure why these communities were abandoned, but it is hypothesized that an eruption of the nearby Sunset Crater volcano around 1100 c.e. drove the inhabits out of the area.
On the day we came across the ruins, it was bright, sunny, and such a glorious morning that we decided to stretch our legs and take a look around. The older folks in our party decided to just sit and view the ruins; I decided to go hiking among them (at the time there was no prohibitions about entering the structures).
After a while, the sun got the better of me and I decided to duck into one of the rooms inside the structure. As I stood inside the cool darkness, I chanced to look up through a window near the top of the room. I could see brilliant blue with tuffs of white clouds through the opening.
As I savored the moment, a strange and sudden feeling overcame me. I felt that I wasn’t alone any longer. I didn’t hear anything and as I swung around to look about the small room, all I could see was a barren dirt floor and nothing more. I continued to stand there, the feeling getting stronger with each passing moment. I stepped outside the doorway of the room to see if there was anyone else nearby. The closest tourists were way down the path, too far away to be the source of the sensation. I took one more look around the room and quickly left.
The feeling of being watch left me as soon as I found my group and headed back to the parking area. I didn’t mention my experience to anyone, but I pondered this odd sensation. I honestly felt as if, not one, but many people, were watching me in that room. Not given to much belief in the paranormal, I chalked it up a flight of imagination brought on by being in such an old and mysterious place.
However, in a country where sometimes historical edifices are knocked down in the name of progress, perhaps I WAS feeling the presence of the Ancient Ones. If so, I hope they were pleased that I stopped by to pay homage to their memory.
Text and photo: Lori Gloyd © May 6, 2006; Revised December 5, 2006
Yah, it is worst enemy,
and best friend.
‘far as I recall,
beginning with a tentative dip
of an index finger
through the quiet surface
of a large rain puddle.
A transforming event,
releasing all sorts of secrets
from this watery chalice.
I rode the droplets,
coalescing from milky clouds.
Then felt their impact,
crashed and splattered
cnto the earth.
Since then, this urge
is impossible to stifle.
I have inserted a finger
into all sorts
of rivers and streams.
None more strident tho,
than the sirens calling
to the great oceans of the world.
So it has been….
from pebbly Brighton beach,
to the sparkling sands of Bermuda,
a quest to unlock the secrets
of this universal sea.
Now I am helplessly poised
to undertake a grueling trek.
The mouth waters
of the great Mackenzie River
must somehow be surmounted,
that this finger be infused
by the ocean currents of the Artic.
WITHIN THE CRACKS OF STONE AND SONG
I pause a bit in place and time – neither Trigor not The Duuran, or simple man-self at all; and ponder on the give and take – the ‘faire trade’ of this market place of Tour Grand. I read the postings of you who travel here, ands those who stayed away; amused by some of the information you present, bemused my the confusion often born of child-like excitement, and pre-lamentive of wisdom’s sorrow – that each of you will get from your journey more than you expect, and less than you hope (or the other way around). For you should know the “Duuran” is also part of an ancient process of divination.
In the 13th century words of Eskiyalı of Györ,
“you might be right or you might be wrong – why I should care is the question.”
Your adventure quest in either Lemuria or imagined
Europe is nothing compared with the journey of your soul – by which I mean the place where mind and heart and spirit and earth must blend, and is only as religious as you choose to make it. To avoid confusion (or churning of belief) I will call this ‘seat of being’ “tegsh” borrowed from Mongolian Shamanism (the beginning) – an ever-sought balance ‘tween spirit and humanity’.
So the question remains, “why should you care?” to listen to the weaving of information, believing and knowledge that Trigor offers in the ‘Sea of Stones’? If you consider the braiding of myths to unfold as a exotic dancer – swirling in light and shadow while removing one veil at a time, then you might also be in a
Paris
Cave, or Bavarian Ratskeller or Italian Shrine – they are the same. For I know that you may not have come for the dance at all, but for the heady drink to escape from turgid memories, or to seek the music that is both magick and prayer, or to catch the eye of that tall gentleman in the corner, or …
I will use the sacred mountain of Trigor as a Tegsh of sorts in palpable form – a balance point on which to spin your dreams or teeter in some gyrations between who you are and who you are perceived to be – yet it could be any place – any person – any sense of awe encountered on your Journey that can serve as well.
As you stare at a magnificent structure of old
Europe – say the Louvre de Paris – do you see a museum of fine art and craft past which to march at blinding speed soas to say you did? Do you marvel at the dedication and commanded faith the built the palace as an amusement of vanity? Did you allow time to watch the families picnic in the park outside – a ritual of stern supervision and guiless play and delicious ‘glace’? Do you close your eyes and reach out and in to why the City of
Lights was build here instead of there – of whether the Earth claims the City or the City an homage to the Earth?
The gift (or curse) that The Duuran gives you is discordance of joy! Each slice of life so easily defined in physical terms is always a choice of Tegsh – touched by tunes of four melodies – mind, heart, spirit and earth. As a writer, artist, teacher, parent or child, your duty is the same – to see something of awe and wonder and retell it in some simple ways that others might understand.
I have tricked you my friends – by taking you on a Journey to the Sea of Stones, I am able to be a stow-a-way on your Tour, to see the world through your special glasses, to see into shadow lit by your candle, to allow my spirit to drift beneath your wings – should you choose to use these items in your pouch.
………………………………………………
aye, but the waning embers need tending and the morning fire rebuilt, and the dawn to be harkened as a line of divine light marches up the many faces of Mt. Trigor. This day has come – let us sing!
The Duuran
Not just any bag will do - but a Doctor’s bag. Though, to be honest, it didn’t belong to a doctor, but a policeman. My great-grandfather, who was an agressive, abrupt R.C.M.P officer in the Prairies during most of the 20th century. He had entirely too much ego. But I should not speak ill of the dead.
On to better things. What’s a girl to pack?
1) pencils and a sketchbook.
2) a leather bound notebook, with ink and pen.
3) tea - ye Gods yes, must have tea. Early Grey, green, peppermint.
4) a very big hat, beige.
5) several books on Gnosticism
6) salt, sugar and spices.
7) clothing - a decent dress, some (gasp!) pants, blouses, sweaters, socks, stockings, a very warm coat, leather gloves, etc. 
my blessed camera
9) sunglasses and sunscreen
10) a little ginger tincture for motion sickness
11) vitamins
12) a travel pillow, and travel towel
13) a mosquito net (“if you don’t believe in the power of one individual, you’ve never been in bed with a mosquito”)
14) passport and money
15) Swiss Army knife (with cork screw, of course)
16) compass and pocketwatch
17) waterbottle and travel cutlery
1 personal padlock (combination style)
19) cotton hankies
20) make-up and facial/toiletry needs
21) my Tarot cards
Now, luggage labels were suggested. While I certainly love the look of them, and do collect them, for fun, I rarely use them - and never on my prized “hand-me-down” luggage from my great-grandparents. I will include some of these fun labels soon. I have stamps too.
Oh, and you must see this quaint “box” for my toiletries - to think, my great-grandmother used this for her many journeys…
I’m almost ready to head out. I must include a photo though, of what I have to face once I leave my front door. Brr! Must I really battle through this unexpected barrage of snow and ice just to make it out of the city?
until day 2,
the already weary WiccanGal
As a young woman I travelled with my parents nearly every year at Christmas. For six months we’d relive the excitement and fun of the previous trip but by the time summer arrived, waiting for the winter cruise listings became almost unbearable. So, one fine Sunday, usually at my mother’s suggestion, we’d get in the car, buy a box of donuts at a local shop, and head to Hoboken to see if any ships were berthed at the Holland America pier.
Sometimes we were lucky, the Nieuw Amsterdam, Rotterdam, or Statendam would be tied up and we’d watch as provisions were loaded, handsome Dutch officers hung over the rails or bounded down the gangways, and the ship swayed gently at the rising tide. Sailings were usually on Saturdays, so we rarely saw the ships leave. One time we arrived shortly before dusk and were treated to a beautiful sight. Sitting in the car, we watched as the sun set and lights began to twinkle on the Nieuw Amsterdam. “She’s as beautiful as a Christmas tree,” someone said and, at that moment, we knew that no matter what her itinerary, we’d be sailing on her for the holidays.
If the piers were deserted we’d drive over to the dry dock area to munch our donuts and gaze at rusty old freighters. It was a poor substitute, but just the sound of waves smacking the pilings and the smell of river water would conjure up images of foreign ports and exotic locales. We’d spend most of the time sitting in silence, each lost in a private daydream.
By mid-August or early September, Cruise Lines began to advertise their winter schedules. Again, Sunday was our day and we’d pour over the NY Times travel section searching for a trip we could afford, with just the right number of days, and ports that would set our hearts pounding, at first in the Carribean and later in South America and Europe.
There was also a little yellow book that could be gotten from a travel agency. What a precious thing it was! Every cruise on every line was listed along with days of departure and return, ports, and minimum to maximum prices. Whichever system we used, the next step was to call either the travel agent or the cruise line direct to get brochures and deck plans. By the time we chose our trip these would be limp from unfolding and refolding.
So many decisions! Excitement built as we discussed and researched the different ports of call. Staterooms were color coded for price. Could we afford the red or blue? Port hole or window? Although the roll of the ship was felt less on lower decks and midship, because of my walking disability, we chose high up–Sundeck or Prom–and toward the stern for easier access to the outside decks. Then, hold that room! send in a deposit!
If possible, we made arrangements to visit “our” ship on a sailing day. We’d catch our breath at the beauty of the public rooms, peek into the dining room, and wonder who the lucky people were sailing in our cabin. The sound of chimes and a loud speaker announcement informed visitors it was time to go, but we lingered until the urgency of the final call and the sound of the ship’s horn vibrated the soles of our feet. Standing on the dock as the ship departed, we’d wave farewell and shout “Bon Voyage,” knowing our turn would soon come.
Did I say soon? How was it possible for three months to drag by so slowly? A few weeks before the sailing date tickets arrived in the mail and (be still my heart) baggage tags! Now it became real and a sudden panic would grip us. Our business demanded we work until the very last minute, but cruise wear had to be looked for in closets or purchased, (a long bamboo pole spanned the living room from one door jamb to the other to hold carefully ironed dresses). Matching jewelry had to be cleaned, shoes polished. Appointments for haircuts and permanents had to be made and kept. For some odd reason, my mother always felt compelled to leave the house spotless. Dad cleaned the garage. What was all that about? Maybe because he needed to unearth a ladder to get the luggage down from the attic.
Suitcases were open in every room of the house. Our two cats, Little Guy and Barry, padded from one to the other searching for a comfy bed only to be dumped and shooed to make room for bathing suits and shorts, underwear, and pajamas. Last of all, the cocktail dresses and evening shirts went in and the cases were closed and locked, tags attached. Where was I? Tidying up the last of the work–I loathed packing.
The night before I barely slept. Sailing day came and all of us were dead tired, convinced we’d forgotten something vital. Finally, bathed, dressed, shod, perfumed, coiffed, gloved and coated, we locked the door behind us (after checking that the gas was off–how many times?) and got into the car for the trip to manhattan. Half-way through the Lincoln Tunnel I’d spot the sign that says New Jersey/New York and Mom would ask Dad if he had the tickets. He always did.
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