Floating

It wasn't very big. Her arms dangled over the top of the Log barely reaching the tops of the rock of waves, she had enough strength to hold on. They watched, not far below, but far enough to give the ocean time to balance her. Soft songs pulsed through the waves toward her.

"Float for awhile, float for awhile," they sang. They were a family, and had been for millions of memories, millions of years of memories. Between the rise and fall of the sounds that became song, The Family folded the floating girl-woman in, wrapping her tired body with 'ike.

"She will need the possibility. So lost does she feel right now. But, no never mind, nothing goes away for ever. Float for awhile, float for awhile." Koholanui was the Ancient One, ceaselessly generous her brain equal to the size of her heart.

When The Family had sung their newly growing song through the passage of noon bright sun to near set, a question came. "Why this one?" asked one of the young ones. "Can you feel something about her that drew us here?" Curiosity was honorable, and even whales have a learning curve.

"This one is one of the Muliwai. She is more us than Human, yet, she has a choice: join us or join a small band of very loyal Beings coming this way."

The young cetacean answered, repeating the song she had heard then adding this, "Between us the bridge is cluttered with accumulation. Will Humans remain as attached to so many things?"

Koholanui responded by repeating "Float for awhile, float for awhile. She will need the possibility. So lost does she feel right now. But, no never mind, nothing goes away for ever. Float for awhile, float for awhile. Why this one? Can you feel something about her that drew us here? This one is one of the Muliwai. She is more us than Human, yet, she has a choice: join us or join a small band of very loyal Beings coming this way. Between us the bridge is cluttered with accumulation. Will Humans remain as attached to so many things? They are very young these Human. But. They are our younger sisters and brothers. We will enfold them, and make space for the Muliwai here, and there. She has two spirits and the inner ears like ours. One life has been given for another. Exchange. The Rules followed. Oh yes, there is always room for faith. And, most especially there is always room for love."

Whales are the original song makers. Theirs are the record of long memory that include who they were before they dove to the depths of Earth's ocean. Theirs are songs intricate and changeable. Theirs are songs like clouds. Nourishing. Moveable. Inseparable. If you will sit with me I will weave for you a story ...a storyteller's melody.

Jan ken po ... rock, papah, scissahs

A spell is something a witch knows has a swinging door. It can be cast, or be cast back. In an instant quicker than the tick on an old clock Pale in Purple knew she had come home. The giant birds, the Greys, told her story. Kaimalama Noa her Ancestor more sure of it she could not be. The longing she felt, the feel that could be assuaged with tincture of the bright yellow summer flower that turned red the jug of vodka. She was grateful for Hypericum The Sunny, the black clouds dissipated for awhile and she said, "Thank you."

But this is where she got off. Dumpling read the Border Witch's thoughts. "Is there any chance you'll change your mind?"

"No. Not even a pipipi's worth of a chance." Pale was smiling a Purple Bird's smile. It may have been the atmosphere of Dream that left her breathing deeply, sweet with a security that lit her without reservation. But Hi'iaka knew it was being at home that mended her lungs, now those of a bird that suit her from tip to toenail.

Dumpling as a hen started doing that head bounce thing chickens do. "Who will tell the others? Back in Salish, at the Cafe.."

Stan had pieced together the long story, the layers of kaona making backbone that made sense to his musical genetics. His comfort with melody and his life as scientist and plant man saw the truth. "Always give back, if you take. We came looking for a young life."

"In her place, in exchange for Shine I stay here." Pale glowed with that violet color of hibiscus she had grown to love in her last years in Salish. "How nice a ha'ina this is. Why don't you two jan ken po. Rock, papah, scissahs. Loser tells the Silver-haired Raven." This was the most difficult part. Now that she was a bird, she would have to live separate from the Silver one. Seemed unfair. But somehow, even that was not too high a price to pay at this point.

The old children's game all three remembered. Dumpling laughed to think of the sight: two chickens playing jan ken po. It would do though. A children's game would make this real. The journey was not yet complete. There was more to come. There was a child yet to be found. Leaving without Pale made the round squash woman sorry she had not gotten to know her better. So many crones, so little time.

The sulphurous scent and shimmer of Lehua blossoms signaled Hi'iaka's return. She kissed Pale Wawae in the old way, exchanging breath, her nose to the bird's beak. "You have found your place of lele and it is truly a beautiful ending. They will come with me. Honu has given me the next instructions. The girl floats. We will find her."

Stan was somber, but happy for his friend. He did know Pale well. Her stories and his music often entertained people of all ages. "How will we recognize you Pale?"

She had the answer, "I will be Clouds. All kinds. Slow moving. Swift. Changeable. I've always wished my body would have allowed that of me. But, a'ole I signed on as fixed, and so I kept the promise. But, now, I can move on." The two friends embraced. Pale said, "Give him this," and handed a small vial to Stan. "He'll know what to do with it when the time comes."

Stan nodded, Dumpling waved. Hi'iaka took the stitched skirt and snapped it like one would a wet toilet ... snap! The trio was gone.

A secret kept ... grace hidden

As it turned out Dumpling's skirt was as good a magic carpet as Sheherazade could have conjured. Once each of the traveler's held firm a small smooth pipipi, Pale unfastened her safety pin. Confident and steady, she held the small limpet and pressed gently along its protective doorway. She remembered the protocol of respect. Introduced herself, "I am Pale." Made her intent known, "Your life will open a door I seek. There is a destiny to satisfy. I ask for your help." The Border Witch waited for an answer. The pin found an entrance, but not before a small trickle of blood fell from her thumb. "Pass the pin."  Pale thanked the tiny pipipi, and did as she was told. The Hen and Cock had watched, and it was not their blood required. The journey was swift though the portal tiny. It was a squeeze. POP! POP! POP! One by one the visitors from Salish entered through a pipipi.

 Dumpling's expertise with stitches coursed a path between the stars and planets. Her skirt became a mirror of the sky and as every woman who sews by hand knows the stitch will make its way dependent upon the resistance of the fiber. A Dream Sky was mutable, but, it was also fused with intent. It led. Three small black limpets slid like skates across the light filled sky. Like the tracks of a railroad through the heavens the three birds road the spirals. They landed on a beach where Birds as tall as giants congregated. Once again, the story was already in progress. They listened.

“You cannot know what it is like to keep secrets.How could you know how differently we grew when on the outside the covey saw nearly identical Grey? What grew so differently for me hides here.” Kaimalama Noa turned his back to his twin, raised his great wings and parted the feathers on his right side to reveal a ridge of calcified bone … a barnacle. “Grown since our warming, the barnacle replaces the right side of my filtration system.Where you breathe, ingest and release food, drink and grace I live with the additional need to hold tight … to grasp to survive.” Freeilll Noa wrestled with understanding and found it difficult.Kaimalama retained his bearing, though his breath was shallow and quick. “I live with conflict every moment of my life Freeill. A part of me must do what is completely wrong for the All. When we were younger the need was easy to ignore. It was easy to lie to myself, convincing my urges to be still. The urges have out-grown the promises I have made to them. They wait no longer. To survive I must collect and store things I value.”

“I have traveled with Palaoa, listened with my whole body the song that is as old as water. With barnacles as big as abalone for stirrups I straddled the old mother and found the answer to your question, “What do I value?” Freeilll knew his brother as a comedian and easy joker, often unable to speak without making light of a request. Today, a kind of mask felt from Kaimalama as he conned clearly and without apology, “I value the right of reserve.” My father cocked his head as if a different angle might aid in his understanding of the comment. “Reserve, you value the right to reserve what?” “I value the right to keep somethings private … not secretive exactly. I simply know that my life of clinging and believing that I must horde … keep more than my share, came from not being able to be different from you. Replication is not what Creators’ purpose was. It was diversity, variation.Somehow our covey and our kin focused on the large and visible ‘GRACE’ that doubles our worth.The small and less visible, the nearly invisible graces are left to scramble in darkness with no access to light. This … lifting his right wing to reveal the barnacle … is a part of me left to long in darkness. It has value, I give it worth. Small grace can make big differences, or at the very least it will do no harm. Denied though, the tiny grace can become,” Kaimalama rewound Palaoa’s song and remembered the word. “Denied, the tiny grace can become parasitic. That is what I have lived with these one hundred cycles.”

Freeilll Noa … twin whose birthright and grace is to free the ill-gotten from a space where nothing but the same can occur came to understand the riddle.

A very small creature … the barnacle attached to his twin

A promise broken … grace be nurtured and embraced

A secret kept … grace hidden becomes twisted and ill-gotten … parasitic?

Pale felt tears well from her. Pretending to want what others believe you should want. Her name changes followed that line of belief for too many years ... she lost count. She nearly lost her soul in the counting. How did Kaimalama resolve his conflict she wondered?

Kaimalama answered his brother, and the three visitors listened. "For as long as my destiny within this body persists, I will spend one half of my life as barnacle. I will tend to the Grace of clinging and view life as a filter dependent upon something bigger than I to survive, and yet I will do no harm during this. My kin as Wood Crafter will not recognize me as barnacle, and my kin as barnacle will not know me as Wood Crafter. The coil of Honu that remains true for both of us will serve as our common link regardless of my cycle.” My father was not sure he understood. His brother reassured him, “Yes that is exactly what I mean.”

The old ones say don't spit in the eye of your talent

"Maybe the world is not ready for the wisdom or learning; so what? Can they write? Can they conceive characters. Maybe writing it out is all you need to thrive. Maybe one or two readers as witness is enough. People spend thousands of dollars to learn to write stories and build characters and you go on and on.. like that!! And then you breathe your 'telling voice' into these stories " Pale heard her old friend the Gypsy Woman in the middle of this current dream she was sharing, that old friend's recent pep talk needled at her. "The old ones say don't spit in the eye of your talent."

Age. Old. Enough.  The feel for the ha'ina --that last verse? Pale Wawae was pretty sure she was in the middle or tail end of her ha'ina. Here on this flattened stone somewhere in Dream Pale listened to a storyteller whose voice could easily be her own. It had a similar timbre and the pauses, were, timed with much practice. She would pause where the teller was pausing. Knowing she and her companions were guests Pale remained quiet. Her Purple Bird form made it easy, she was in the presence of other birds and she fit-in. Only then did she think to notice how her friends had arrived.

Perched beside her were a hen and a rooster. Not like any she'd seen in her chicken yards, they were in spite of their feathers, a hen and a cock colored like the foam on top of large mugs of latte. "What a sense of humor is going into this tale," thinking was all that was necessary to communicate. "Dumpling, you've brought your stitchery!"  Stan who came with a fan of glistening tail feathers tipped his head, caught Pale's eye and together the two of them exchanged the feeling of familiarity ... talents traveled the bridge between. Just what had his Dumpling woman sewn together? Stan Costa had brought his talent for languages intact. The man gleaned, and heard the lessons of genealogy and prophesy. Dumpling listened to the storytelling, but was intent on noticing the condition of the sky, and in particular the patterns of stars above them.

But it was the Swallows who recognized the three visitors. Swooping and dancing above them, their songs did not query so much as leave room for each to fill in the blanks. INTRODUCTION. Rather than words, Dumpling unknotted the patchworked skirt she'd been stitching it fluttered on its own accord. "Like a magic carpet?" Dumpling's first guess, surprised as any of them to see her needlework.

Again, the Swallows realized it less a carpet and more like the kihei the cape used in defending against the Mo'o in the epic journey.  "Ancient mythic journeys playing out and over again. Oh how the layers of kaona piled one upon the other," the tail feathers of the cock bounced from Stan the rooster man. He was putting the lyrical translation together in this most amazing Dream. Big Dream.

"I am Shelela, and the one who tells this story is my sister Shenia. We are of the family Wood Crafter. You appear to be of another place. Is it our not-yet that you bring? Are you our future?" She was very concise, there were no bushes to beat around. No doubt we were in her forest, and we were visitors. Hi'iaka watched invisible to the Dreamers, if there were fears or insecurity residual in the Border Witch it was now a time to step away from them.

Pale in Purple was seeing her legacy, she was meeting her People. She spoke up, "I am Pale. A relation from your distant future. We ... she extended her purple feathers to include the chicken and the rooster ... have come in search of a young Human. A girl with a predisposition akin to those your sister tells of. This girl, does not 'hear' as Human hears. Instead it is her internal ears that listen between species. She is most connected to the ones we call Kohola. Whales. Some where in our oceans she floats for a time, holding onto what was once her stability. What she hears is what we--me and perhaps all Humans-- have forgotten. She hears the songs of Kohola in tact. Whole. Distraction does not interfere with her channel.

One in a hundred million, a small community living on an island in the middle of the Salish Sea became privy to her mode of being. We were retuned. Our strings were lowered an octave. But now, this girl is between choices. Does she let go of her Human connection and return to her ocean depth?" Pale stopped, practicing the pregnant pause ....

"I hope she will consider another alternative." Pale finally added.

Shelela understood the predicament. "You must need our uncle Kaimalama. His story will offer one alternative."

"Pale," Shelela addressed the purple bird eye to eye. "Have you the magic? The pin?"

"Yes."

"With your permission," this time Shelela circled the hen. "Pale will need your cape. It is her blood, her magic and her courage that will open the puka such a small opening. Pale, do you remember how to open the lid to the pipipi once it is steamed?"

"I do." The memory of small-kid times at the Tide Pools, an old tin can filled with saltwater over an open fire filled with the small limpets.

"It is well you kept those memories sharp. Your mother will be very proud, and your Aunty well she always knew you could tell a good story!" Shelela circled tight above the trio and dropped three black shells from her wing tip. "Open the pipipi." With that the Swallow and the scene were gone.

They count on the moon

Well now dears. The flow of dream and story has Old and Older mixing and if you need a bit of digestion time, this would be the perfect place for that. In the sky above while Lono blessed the woods with a dousing rain, the oldest Grandmother of skies, Mahina the Moon wears her 'Ole Face. It is the time for reflecting and mending, resting and weeding.

Through the vessel of The Blog, there are connections to facilitate ... note the links and eat them up.

• Let us reflect. There is a girl lost or taken from a big sailing vessel. An improbable circumstance? But we have more information don't we. The girl is a Muliwai, a Being meant to be between. Her story began in a story about the Three Sisters ... corn, bean and squash. Who is she, the little girl? 

• Her name is Shine, and she is first the sister, and then the daughter of the Corn Lady, named Linda. She is the Bean who will and does entwine herself on the strength of her mother the Corn Lady Linda. Born without 'hearing' she is other-ways blessed and shared her song with help from Human music makers. They create Sonic resonance ... they tap hearts, they connect with the Oldest Record Keepers. Who are the Oldest Record Keepers? Kohola, the Whale. 

• A Turtle, the favorite sister of Pele born from the egg, a Border Witch named for a weed or a slipper, a squash named Dumpling, a dairy farmer's grandson who sings in the language of Plant Beings, and two young Humans with two spirits a piece and the ability to harmonize ... all of them converge on the Ancient story of Wood Crafters. The tracking of kaona brings all of these elements into the 'Ole Kulua energy of now. They, and you, can know how powerful it is to count on the moon.

• Ahhh. The life of a tracker of multiplicities is a complicated one if you attempt it weighted by limitations of any kind. That is easier said than done, trust me, it is a practice over millions of earth years. My name is Max. Some of you might know me as Godfather to the Border Witch? I am that, and with this story we weave together many dangling threads, coral polyps, and voices of Moss. Look for those threads in the handwork Dumpling Woman rests her head upon after having drunk that Wild Forest Black.

There is more to come ... but, for now eat your fill and then we will fly some more.

What was, what is, and could've beens Part III

Mabelle the bass was now a permanent resident. She was comfortable in what was now Stan and Dumpling's cottage in town. There was no wedding, but, between them the commitment and consolidation of their goodness fit the sense of things. From their home they contributed 'rent' amounting to several thousands of dollars to the landowners. Such was the condition of economy, at least for the next little while. What was more important was the growth of Three Sisters gardening Stan Costa had established up and down the neighbor community entwining white picket fences with the songs of Corn, Bean and Squash. They-- the neighbors--only knew the tip of the iceberg, but, that was quite enough. Change was slow, and it was coming.

The Dream came mid-morning. Stan was back from the Fire Station Garden. He'd forgotten a part to the water metering gauge nearly installed. Dumpling was finishing a complicated design of stitches on a many times patched skirt. "You're back early," she said when Stan's tall shape and bright red Advice from a Lady Bug hat stepped through the front door.

"Forgot something," he said. Dumpling puckered for her kisses.
"Yes. You were still sleeping when I left this morning."
"Want some tea? Wild Forest Black is in the pot." Wendy's tea cozy of bright hand-spun wools sat in the middle of the table. When Stan reached for a mug and drew a chair, Dumpling set her handwork down, lifted the cozy and checked the pot. "I'll make some fresh. This has sat too long." Old tea never went to waste, this strong black tea was wonderful for cleaning the wooden floors of their cottage. A canning jar under the sink would keep this lot.

That was Hi'iaka's opening. Without physical form she waited for the kettle water to boil, Dumpling turned off the burner, opened two packets of Wild Forest Black sniffing the paper packet and let out a signature hum. A small vile of nectar of place poured from the goddess's palm. Before the two dears had finished their freshly poured tea they too were in dreamtime with arms and hands folded in the kindergarten position. It was Dumpling who recognized the smell of Dreamtime. She looked around for Spirit her Familiar and was rewarded. The small black cat purred loudly, and rubbed against the woman's leg. "You will like this," Spirit sent message directly to Dumpling's storytelling mind. "And, we have company in this dream. Your favorite man is just ... there! The big story is already in the telling. Pale the Border Witch is already here, you'll know her by her purple."

Spirit indicated with a sort of blinking with her cat green eyes. A purple feathered Bird perched on a flattened boulder. "There's room beside her, listen ..."

Cosmic islands existed in the stories of Wood Crafters for as long as wind was given air to breath. Spread across the skies the islands rode the winds in the southern hemisphere and in particular the Wood Crafters favored the air near the constellation of The Seven Sisters. 

 My father’s covey fished the waters of The Seven Sisters for generations and was valued for their lore of tidal richness and sacred prayers. Unlike my mother’s branch of Crafters Freeilll Noa of the Islands was bred to a tradition of listening and except for the unproductive nights of the moon … when fishing waited and utterances of mending and maintenance filled their breaths, his was a silent covey. The Crafters of the Islands could hear a fish rise from the still evening pond a constellation away. Fish were not caught for sport, only for life. Prayers were exchanged at the moment of capture. Death and life replaced the other and no death went uncelebrated as life grew from the loss.  The keenly tuned sense of hearing tended well in a world that was gentle of sounds; on star dust a language of modulation matched the sounding bones within the ear of Island Crafters. 

 Rarely did an Islander wander or be given need to travel to Woods where the song-tellers voices filled the skyways, and if such occasion arose there was always preparation for the assault. A lifetime of communication on star dust alone could be debilitating to a Novice who chanced upon Song or Story out loud. My father was no Novice when he heard the sound of his own name called across the archipelago on what felt to him like a tidal wave. It was an unusual time and a wave of volcanic proportion had been predicted by Honu the sea turtle with memories of time before silence. 

As my father sat on a stump he reserved for mending his nets and sharpening his bill, Honu surfaced in the shallows. “The day is malia for a day of rest. Unusual for the cycle would you say?” Honu conned his thoughts in my father’s direction. Freeilll had noticed the differences in the tides in recent cycles and nodded to Honu, “I have noticed this old friend. The winds are very gentle and seem almost to be asleep else where. Perhaps an anomaly … ought we be concerned?” The sea turtle had lived through many, many transformations in these cosmos and knew my father would not question if there were no need for concern. “Things are changing Freeilll, I notice how much warmer the oceans are for the season. Hatchings are early and the fry are small but have extremely large eyes and no protrusions for ears. I have felt the swell of a wave volcanic in size. Prepare the covey for the wave. Be ready for the calling. Listen for your name.”With that Honu dug into the sand with her flippers and turned to submerge her mountainous self into the deep.

http://www.vardofortwo.blogspot.com/2009/07/why-i-write-fairy-tales-when-real-is.html

What was, what is, and could've beens Part II

Honu slipped through the open window. Hi'iaka watched as the great old turtle reassembled her form. Hovering over the floor her shell was twice the size of the small table. Barnacles as large as a child's fist grew like miniature volcanoes on the ancient shell. "It is a very long way between times. And I see the woman in purple has begun to track kaona. Did you slip the other magic where she'll find it? The way is tricky, and the girl will need at least the vial."

Hi'iaka was thorough. Journeying was her speciality. "The nectar of place will be there for her. Did you speak with them?"

"Yes. The songs of the Leviathan are changing. The People of the Coastline have scheduled their moves. These who consider themselves safe enough will discover otherwise. They are lucky the girl began her soundings from the little bakery down the street. We will need the children -- those singers from her ..."

Hi'iaka knew the word, "band."

"That librarian who speaks Swallow, she needs to be informed. I will visit her while Pale dreams. The Fairy Lady has laced Pale's tea with enough tincture and that Swallow Woman can gather the singers."

"The old farmer's grandson. The Costa boy, he and his Dumpling Woman have they been told you are here?" Honu was gasping for breath. Like Pale, Earth's air was not easy to breathe any more. Such a pity, the sweetness of the environment had turned sharp and difficult. The Goddess reassured Honu that Pale, Stan Costa and Dumpling were having the same dream. Smiling, Hi'iaka rubbed soothingly on the ancient turtle's shell swirling to avoid scraping her hands on the barnacles. "Yes, they dream now and shortly the three will meet in a time of could have."

"My work is done then. I love seeing you Cousin. The fragrance of your lehua groves still remains one of my most treasured scents. Are we in time, you think?" Already Honu was translucent. "Track the kaona favorite sister of Pele. Story is all we have to hold us all together."