the fates thread the loom

 

before new years eve……

thick smoke envelopes our valley

coats our tongues

slipping particles into the blood stream

rivers and dams collapse under the weight

of the hot dry winds and fierce Sun

forests have sent up smoke signals

all is not well

heed the children.

 

and then one day  Fire came

orange red  flames licking

gorging on grasses wood,

devouring the tree the spider the worm

those that could scattered

rose up into the air

some diving to ground trembling bodies pressed suffocating

others fled running  for their lives

some hid to be chanced over, others fried.

 

I waited at the house

in an outfit

I had carefully selected and laid out the night before

jeans and belt

pink woollen socks big boots

singlet, green checked woollen shirt

blue crocheted woollen beanie

thick golden gloves and a face mask.

the hoses were in place

half a dozen of them in snake formation around the house.

the job description was easy,

apply water

to verandah and under

up the poles and onto windows

even the walls.

water water water

next hose next verandah repeat

oh and stay alive.

 

strangely calm

waiting, watching the advance

creeping into the bush like a thief in the night

with  an almighty roar.

John in his red woollen shirt ,

hoody up and mask on,

starts the pump

water is running from every hose

the verandah wetted from the night before

but we hose it all again.

the gutters are filled with water

watching

a ring of fire at the dam

the shack goes up

a loud  whump signals the end of  Rebeccas BMW.

fire scaling up tree trunks

gobbling shrubs ferns grasses

stringybarks bush-cherry

angophoras red gums

snapping leaves leaping dancing cavorting

and coming directly towards us.

it  picks up pace coming up the slope from the dam

a wall of flame approaches the south verandah.

John is calm

he has a the high pressure hose

fire meets water and determination

water holds

John stands firm.

 

He built this house

made every brick

from the earth in front of the house,

it literally rose up out of the ground

one brick at a time

for over 30 years a family home

one that now rings to the tune of grandchildren,

blood sweat tears births deaths marriages

this house alive, pulsates with love.

 

inside smoke is thick

visibility zero

bath tub full of skanky dam water

Zoes woollen blankets a sodden heap on the floor

a good escape to crawl under to steady the breath

before returning  outside to the heat,

the inferno the hoses and water.

embers skipping onto the roof

making holes in the clear roof panels

curling embers meet sodden verandah and vanish

no burns on the boards, no blisters on our bodies.

a window cracks in the bedroom

the window where our mobiles sit to get reception.

 

dust soot ash and charcoal coat everything

charred trunks and limbs

a whole understorey has disappeared.

will we see now?

will we wake to reality?

our Planet home

our beautiful beautiful home

trying to deal with our consumables, our plastics

our fumes our anger.

too much she cries

too much,

forgive us for we do know what we do

we know

that’s the tragedy

we know.

 

some days after the main fire front had passed

trees still smouldering

roots deep in the ground  burning,

many elder trees are continuing to fall

walking on crusty black ash

the ground as if plowed up

giant holes where once a root system lived

patterns of ash like crop circles

skirting fallen trees

shallow breathing the air

smoky thick and relentless

visibility limited.

we leave our burnt forest

drive through a silent world

a charred smouldering valley,

some neighbours houses mere rubble

power poles smashed sideways

wires curling in chaos

cows dead.

We come to our village

half the main street has been smashed

this is my new world.

 

 

the tower has fallen

the spin of ideas and aspirations has tripped

been knocked sideways

taken a slam.

the Fates thread the loom

again

They weave

brightly coloured lights bounce from fingertips

glories rarely glimpsed

consciousness stretches

tugs

elemental energies dance

holding holding holding

while the tapestry is woven

the women are Singing.

 

 

 

but the train has left the station

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I am Earth born

and steadily returning

dirt under my nails

dirt etched in wrinkles and seams

dirt leaf web in hair,

roots entwined with stringybark and kurrajong

limbs braced cradle nest feather egg

animated by wind and lightning,

a Song in my heart

a poem in my Soul.

 

danger is real, threats ever present

truth terrifying

scalding our hearts and minds.

 

islands of plastic expanding

soil leached of promise

artesian waters meet fracking

forests cut sliced into chips

women beaten children wronged

madness in place of common sense.

 

I am not alone

in this feral forest community

of feminine and masculine,

as children we arrived

now wisdom visits.

 

wallaby thinks not of place or belonging

comfortable in its own fur

claws perfect for scratching

picking lemons

pulling up artichokes

nurturing baby.

wallaby is not human

and I am animal

not animal enough to Know place

to belong

but animal enough to be Kin.

 

moon set

boobook poses the question

bandicoot squeals,

ants on the run

pobblebonk sings the rainSong.

 

change is upon us

denial is fruitless,

humans play catch up

but the train has left the station,

some do not hear the whistle

some lay down on the tracks

others nap head pressed against the glass.

 

no matter,

it is what it is

our Mother will decide.

 

 

 

 

 

 

a seamless dance

dawn mist shifts reality

softens tall trees shrubberies,

plants of food and medicine.

autumn rain launches the ticks

no larger then a full stop.

 

sweet morning Songs

whip bird, kookaburra, lyrebird, magpie,

tuning the vibrations of Air Water Earth Sunshine

tweeting of love family and food

tiny notes of living.

 

a red belly black shares verandah Sun

as kindling is chopped,

we pass each other in the garden

no blinking, no poking tongue out,

a seamless dance.

 

a cuppa with friends

David points to my leg ‘what’s that?’

pulling the leech off ,

‘a gift’

I place it in their garden.

 

red necked wallaby soft eyes alert

grass stem poking from its mouth,

my heart listens and waits,

a tiny jelly wobble of the pouch

another addition to the tribe.

 

goanna clambers onto the verandah

tongue waggling toenails clicking,

through the open doorway

crash bump and bang

unable to find its way out.

 

in the room where I sleep a grandmother died

her body laid to rest

beyond the dam under the red gums.

babies are born, daughters wed,

placentas buried.

 

before menopause I bled on this land

red mark on my forehead,

earth heart meditation

a sacrament for the Mother,

honouring Her.

 

forest life is raw,

immediate

the forest IS without me,

a miracle I adore

a moment held within every breath I take .

 

 

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.

 

the language of eartheart

 

political / economic language saturates our daily lives but it is our choice whether we speak it or not. It is a language of shares, investments, insurance, security, profit and loss leading to winners and losers. Words make stories in which everything is a commodity, measured in terms of productivity progress and usefulness. A language that denies Nature Feelings the Earth and Love.

The orchestra is playing. It began at dawn with great open bellied laughing, then slightly more  melodic tunes ,peeps whistles whips and trills until it is riotous in the sweetest possible way. The songs continue as I drink my pot of tea, eat toast, follow me as I meditate, dress, sweep the kitchen floor , brightly busily slowly, tuned in to the day they chirp cheep chatter and warble.

This symphony is full of purpose expressing vital news marking the patterns of their lives of the Forest around them; sunrise, egg hatching, a flowering, a seeding, storm alerts, approaching snake goanna human, matings, deaths, sunset, all is jotted in the Forest ledger, all a note played in the orchestra of Birdom. Everywhere wrens honeyeaters magpies thrushes pigeons tawny frogmouths, skinks wombats wallabies and bandicoots are communicating the Radiance of Life on Earth.

Thunder cracks open the swollen skies, runs away over to the Mountain and races back again. I am lying on the couch reading when the thunder and lightning Beings skip into the room whip crackling the air, chuck a bright flare of light and startle me.

Rain has a huge vocabulary, a vast repertoire of moods sounds and feelings . There is the song for splashing, for plopping fat drops, tapping on window panes, a pelting drumbeat on the iron roof, a windy slapping against the tree trunks and a gushing gurgling rushing flooding along creeks tracks and drains.

Some days it broods far above, squatting on the Mountain wearing  a grey beret. Cloud mist drifts around inviting the faintest speck of moisture on the cheek. Other days rain scarpers out to sea with barely a backward glance, where it visits Mother Ocean and shares a cuppa. In its own sweet time it returns to the valley rejuvenated committed to the business at hand and delivers a soft shower or a teeming heavy pelting drama.

Why would we think that Water is not cognizant, that Earth is not aware, that Air is not tuned in, that Fire does not know us? We are forged from the Elements , related to every drop, every breath, every molecule.Exif_JPEG_420

There is a Song for the ghost mushroom, the elder flower, pittosporum , titree, lavender  of scent and beauty , bee foraging , bioluminescence ,oils and medicine. I inhale , take them into my body – a draught of pure sun drenched essence Sings in me.

The dialect of frogs – croaks cricks stutters bonks hops and leaps in  communication with Earth and reed, Water and soft mud, hibernation dreaming, forecasters of rain and water quality.

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The ripe summer peach is a rich feltness in my mouth, dribbles along my fingers and chin singing of tree limb and bough, of bud blossoms leaves fruit and birds nests, sun, rain, wind and days measured in ripeness and angles of the sun and spiders that weave between branches , worms burrowing in the roots and squealing children that swing up on branches and chuck pips at each other .

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Hard working ants push up the soil – a drainage technique for them that informs me rain is coming.

Every Being has language, every Being shares their Story .

Stop !  listen and learn a language older than the stock market, older than open cut mines, older then human intervention.

This language of Nature, of Life is ancient, a lineage that holds Creation in its Song. One day we entered the story inventing our words / myths around the camp fire, Songs of respect and awe, humility and gratitude until we dug up the uranium, clearfelled the forests and greedy gobbled dry the rivers.

It was then we changed the words to deny Beauty . It was then we allowed fork tongue speak of rational logic to lock out the weeds and sunflowers that nod as you walk past, the cloud that stoops to peer in through the window, the dripping tap in the kitchen saying hey I am Water, we are Kin. It was then a Forest became a compartment and the share price of google was more important than the River the Platypus and the Child.

Now we are going forward determining outcomes while the Raven sits on the wire, keen eye piercing , aaahh aaahhh aaahhh.

Probably time to embrace the full embodied experience of connection, time to learn the language of the Heart that communicates with all Beings.

Time to come home.

Come back to Earth.

x

 

 

 

 

 

 

…standing at the pearly gates..

what are WE in the business of as planetary Beings ?

some people have a mission, a divine purpose, a calling, a particular yen for something that no matter how far away they travel from ground zero they are brought back face to face with what is theirs to do.

is this You?

can you recognise your hearts yearning

your embodiments lessons

your creative muse crooning under the hum of the white noise?

my mission is stated here : https://faeriembassy.wordpress.com/about/

 is this something I have made up to make myself important, inflate my ego, some sort of  delusional pretence?

only my Heart and the Divine can truly know the answer to this.

 lets say I’m living in ‘la la land’, a rosy petalled state of warriors and hearts with swords of truth writing to bring about justice and respect …

is this a fantasy?

how about this one then?

…standing at the pearly gates passport ready to launch down to planet Earth, to mother father, to village or city. A bit nervous because they tell you the spirit of oneness will be forgotten and it’s your job to remember. 

 who could possibly ever forget this Magnificence this Totality of Beingness ,this Truth?

before you go some last minute instructions:

 when you get there you must take a breath and keep breathing for all the days of your allotted time on Earth.

you survive by applying food and water to the Bodyhouse given to you.

there will be twists turns tangents and contradictions .

 Earth will share plenty of strange things, many wonders, countless horrors. 

Keep in mind that everything/ everyone is an aspect of  the Great Omnipresent Divinity.

 

 and then you arrive, the passport passes along the umbilical cord transmitted deep into the cells of your body and you wake into harsh light bustle beeps and shrieks, the air cuts you like a knife , the sounds wound your hearing , the world is hazy and confusing and already you don’t like it much. where is the Source now you wonder?

 as you grow up things happen, violence war pain and suffering, somehow it all seems wrong as if the world is divided into good and evil. In those dark and difficult times the light of the Divine holds steady but your gaze is elsewhere.

 you realise the Body likes food likes sex likes clothes likes facebook ..likes..  you enjoy basketball kayaking making money ,there are amazing things going on so you buckle up and accept the ride. 

 you keep breathing until you can’t any longer and one day you find your Self at the pearly gates again passport ready detailing the acts of a life lived.

if you had tear ducts you would weep for here the oneness is as it always is 

what is our job description here on planet Earth?

breathe eat sleep make love make happiness make generosity make kindness

make it up as you go along

but do your Best

as best as you can Be.

pouring gratitude onto the Ground you walk

into the Air you breathe

through the Water you drink.

and one day the heart awakens and you see Turtle crossing the road and it is you carrying your house around.

one day on the way to work you notice nest-building by the Swallows under the bridge and you know this is you building a future for your family.

one day you plant a seed – tomato  lettuce  zucchini. the  fruits are shared with your neighbour and in return they give sauerkraut. you recognise that despite the differences community is enacted.

if you could be anything in the whole wide world what would you Be?

I hope you can say that it is You now

that You are being your True Self.

breath by breath

day by day

we learn our role

we learn what is ours to do.

 

blessings

sandRa

 

 

 

 

Z : zen musing

 

dear friends ,

I know I repeat myself. I know I keep on telling the same stories over and over again, about forest and earth and spirit and beetle.

I have noted that it is a device used in other cultures and imagine that maybe repetition is one of the keys to our ongoing survival growth and learning.

and so once again

***

on any given day a turtle plods past the house

a black swamp wallaby drinks from the water pot outside the kitchen window,

a superb blue wren picks at crumbs shaken out from the breadboard onto the verandah

a skink wanders along the kitchen bench

a whipbird ducks thru the shrubberies

a black snake flattens out along the woodpile warming up.

 

***   the forest is magic;

it is biodiversity And,

it is poetry rhythm song and dance  ***

 

as a forest dweller I love it,

and yet because of my presence here  adaptations are taking place all the time. I am witness to evolution in the making. foods not previously known or eaten are now available and the black swamp wallaby and the brush tail possum like to take up all offers.

year after year our earnest human ideals have been tasted and added to the palate of bird possum wallaby, even the skinks love hommus.

we the usurpers have retired our ideals and watch in unfeigned delight at the bowerbirds, cuckoo doves, lewins honeyeaters, currawongs and silvereyes hoofing into the figs.

***

the question for me is –

how can I reduce my footprint to leave a world of beauty for the grandchildren and their grandchildren?

***

I have to take responsibility for all that is going on

all that I like and all that I despair of.

all this is within me.

we the humans are co- creating – changing the blueprint making our mark.

so on the one hand we are capable of biocide and on the other, acts of great kindness and generosity.

***

every year the whales swim along our coast, sometimes shepherding their babies in close so we can see them easily from the cliff tops. I think of the sounds they make and the songs they sing and the stories they hold and wonder why we do not know and honour their language their passion their lore.

I know next to nothing of the languages/stories within this forest, of what the kurrajong or the echidna is saying or where the turtle has come from and who its relatives are, or how old it is, or what it dreams of when it lies on the log beside the dam.

all this I do not know which is why I cherish living within this space – this place of worms and bacteria and fungi, of death and decay, of bud and bloom.

***

and that question leads me to another,

I wonder that if we are willing to plant the seeds of tomorrow

the seeds of cucumber and kindness,

of tomato and compassion,

of beans and generosity

will this make a difference ?

 

and then I pray

that it can

and that it will.

 

I do not know if there are answers

but I am thinking that

while the bee still sups from the flower

and the platypus still plays in the river

and while Mother Earth is the only embodied home we know

then,

for the sake of all that we hold dear – whale tree dingo bat sugarglider dolphin eagle  river child wattle fern wombat …….

 

let us sow the seeds of tomorrow

honour respect kindness laughter generosity compassion grace…….

 

yours faithfully,

sandra taylor

daughter of the earth and the sun

xxx

 

 P.S.  have you noticed that there is no mention of zen- what am I on about ? not even a vague attempt to bring it into the picture . I found that as far as zen goes there is nothing to say . there is only the lived and felt experience which may be zen or maybe not . who am I say? 

P.P.S. my thanks to the a to z challenge for inspiring me to write every day , to share this love I hold, this prayer I sing.  I honour all those who have travelled with me and I thank you dear companions for your support and your stories in return.

 

angophora cathedral

 

 

 

 

O : Oh great spirit

there is a cupboard in the kitchen and on the inside of one of the doors is this prayer…….

 

oh vintage

 

oh great spirit

creator of all

blessed be the big and

blessed be the small.

 

oh fire that warms and

water that cleanses

light that shines and

love that surrenders.

 

oh earth that provides and

air that breathes

hearts that declare and

minds that receive.

 

oh great spirit

friend and lover

blessed be the father and

blessed be the mother.

 

we give thanks.