Friends, Romans, Ladies…behold, my mother!

~~~*~~~

When around others, she usually prefered to listen instead of talking, but when she talked,  you really listened.

She liked playing with her boy cousins, hated dolls, always wore her hair short and loved to drink Coke (to the very end, even if she was diabetic most of her life.)

So that explains why I don’t like frilly dresses, pink and most of the usual “girl” things.

Could also explain why I like the not-so-usual tv shows, like Buffy, House, Cold Case and Pushing Daisies and other detective and/or non-mainstream shows. (I also like Cagney & Lacey, which she loved before I was born.)

She found herself walking back to the entrance to the catacombs, taking a torch, going past the statues of Jesus, the angels and the gargoyles, wondering if she would be able to find her way back to the Hall of Remembrances.  Walking down one tunnel, Thalia came across a statue of a regal-looking cat on a tombstone. 

Oh, oh.  I didn’t come this way before.  Must have taken the wrong tunnel.  I would have remembered seeing this sleek cat.  What does it say?

BAST–MET

GENTLE FRIEND

FIERCE PROTECTOR

No date.  Wonder when this is from?  Wonder about the name—seems like an obvious combining of Bast and Sekhmet, both goddesses in Egyptian mythology, but is it?  Was Bast the name in itself or short for Bastet?  That would say a lot about the date right there.  And both gentle and fierce—how intriguing.  Well, the solid black statue doesn’t tell me why this cat was named a composite name of two Egyptian goddesses generally depicted as lionesses.

A faint noise coming from behind the tombstone caught her attention.  She listened, heard it again, and cautiously moved around in that direction.  She almost didn’t spot the kitten curled up on the floor, pressed against the tombstone. 

“Oh, how sweet.  How did you get in here?  Are you okay?”  Thalia squatted down and extended out her hand to stroke the kitten… and her hand passed tight through.  The kitten looked up at her and edged closer, obviously wanting contact.  “Why are you still here?  Did you know the cat…Bast-met?”

The kitten’s thoughts came through.  That is me.  I’m Bast-Met.  I’m actually the kitten who became Bast-Met.  But I’m still confused.

Why are you confused?  You were obviously loved by your owner.

Yes, I was.  But people don’t realize how important a name is.  I was confused because I was named after two different aspects of goddesses, even though both were lionesses at one time—Best and Sekhmet.

Lions?  I thought they were cats.

No.  Bast was the ancient Lower Egypt solar and war goddess and protector.  She was depicted as a fierce lioness while also associated with the sunlight so was called ‘Goddess of Fire’ or ‘Lady of the Flame.’  Later she became Bastet, her role diminishing as Sekhmet , a similar deity in Upper Egypt when Lower Egypt lost dominance in the unification of the Upper and Lower sections.  The feminine suffix of ‘et’ is the diminutive name that applies as she receded and Sekhmet rose to power.  Her gentler aspect as protector of the home and pregnant women changed as her appearance changed to a domestic cat.  Then during the times when the Greek occupied Egypt, she changed again to a goddess of the moon.

So Bast become Bastet and took the appearance of a domestic cat.  Why would a cat still be important?

Cats were revered highly because they could catch and kill threats to the fragile food supply like rats and mice and snakes.  So much so they were mummified before burial.  More than 300,000 mummified cats were discovered when Basts’ temple at Per-Bast was excavated.

What about Sekhmet?  Was she also a lion who changed to a cat?

Sekhmet was a warrior lioness goddess of Upper Egypt, the lioness being the fiercest hunter the Egyptians knew.  They thought her breath created the desert and so she was a protector of the pharaohs.  She was also a solar deity and became more powerful than Bast, so was seen as ‘The Avenger of Wrongs.’  Sekhmet was also seen as a bringer of disease as well as a healer of those diseases, with her worship centered in Memphis.  ‘She Who Is Powerful’ was depicted as a woman with the head of a lioness.  Pyramid texts themselves say the Pharaoh was conceived by Sekhmet who was the wife of Ptah, ‘The Creator.’ Other myths say she was created by the fire of Ra’s eye to use her as a weapon of vengeance to destroy men because of their wicked ways.  Sekhmet is the Goddess of the West and Bastet is the Goddess of the East.  Both are shown with heads of lionesses with Bastet wearing green and Sekhmet wearing red. 

So that’s why this statue has a jeweled collar of red and green gems.  A while back I even saw a refrigerator magnet with a picture like this statue on it.  Quite a contrast between being considered goddesses and being on a fridge magnet.  But why are you still here?

I was always confused as to who I really was and my mistress expected two different behaviors—sometimes I should be like a lioness, the aggressive war goddess, and other times I should be gentle like a healer and docile protector of pregnant women.  Mistress would encourage me to be ‘Avenger of Wrongs’ and ‘Lady of Slaughter,’ both titles of my suffix namesake.  But then would be upset when I caught a rat and brought it home to her to show I was the ‘Lady of Slaughter.’  No, now she preferred for me to be tame like the mummified cats.   

And all I wanted was to be me—a kitten needing to be petted and loved and let to develop naturally, not forced into predetermined roles.

Would you mind if I write your story down?  Because this also applies to modern day parents and children.

It does?  How?  I thought it was because I couldn’t talk to my mistress.

No.  Even when children are all grown up and can discuss issues like this with their parents, it usually doesn’t help.  Because parents who try to force children into a mold they want usually aren’t able to truly listen and understand what is being said.  Parents who listen and understand from the beginning usually tend not to force anything on anyone.  They realize each has their own way to grow into their adult selves. 

By this time the kitten was curled up in Thalia’s lap, purring as she was stroked.  She stretched out, putting her front paws on Thalia’s shoulders.  Thank you for listening and helping me to understand I was not alone in dealing with the expectations of others.  I would be verrrrry happppy for you to wrrrrite my storrrry.  I just wwwwanted to be mmmmme and not torrrrn in two diffferrrrent dirrrrections.  Can you call mmmmme Kitty?

 “My pleasure, Kitty.  You’re such a sweet kitten.  And your fur is so silky, Kitty.”

The purring increased in volume as Kitty’s substance solidified and matured.  Thalia and Kitty rubbed noses.  Then both Kitty’s purring and her body faded and disappeared as Thalia continued to stroke the empty air while thinking of an anonymous quote she had seen: “Thousands of years ago, cats were worshipped as gods.  Cats have never forgotten this.”  One more contrast.  Treated as goddesses and important enough to be preserved as mummies but now the likeness is on refrigerator magnets.  She said ‘NO’ to both aspects—she just wanted to be Kitty.

My dad and friends performing in a play produced by a nearby girls’ school.

At the time of the picture, he and his friends were around 19 or 20.

Since I wanted to focus on him, I cut out most of the cast and blurred the rest of the nearby people, then enlarged his part of the picture and stuck it on top of the (already cropped) group picture.

my dad, today: http://flickr.com/photos/themagickbox/2679494109/

***

PAGE CREDITS:

Bridget Freebies & Rest: Vintage Charm Kit -> Elements and Paper (as overlay)
Wenchd Grafix: Muted Gift -> Paper (as background base)

It began with three and ended with three – the old woman who lived by her shoes, the young girl with the tattoos and the middle aged mystery lady who sat by the side of the beach always drawing in her notebook.

The young girl took pride in her tattoos as the emblem of leaving girlhood to enter woman hood. She was so still when the tattoo artist went to work it had scared those watching who were used to at least a slight tensing of nearly every girl that underwent the ritual.

The old woman who had witnessed many girls undergo the ritual had been waiting for this one. She stood in the background and no one really noticed her but it was to her the young girl would turn when she understood her own significance.

The mystery lady simply drew the tattoo and around it other pictures conjured up by the power of the word drew themselves out of her pencil. She could not draw the smell but she wrote in “singed frangipani” to remind her of the day.

Now the young girl made her way to the temple. The ritual was not over but now required supplication, prayer and a period of fasting.

The old woman nodded as the young girls figure grew smaller and smaller.  She was the one, definitely the one. She raised her hands in thankfulness, turned away and began her journey to prepare the way.

(c) image and words June Perkins

The sounds of bubbling water enhanced her awareness.  She felt serene in all aspects of herself.  This is a good space in which to live, where one is totally at peace.  And what a wonderful place in which to die—in a hammock in water—not drowning, but just floating in water in the ocean or a lake or, even a pool such as this.  She lay still, attempting to remember her dream, or was it an experience?  So wonderful, but what was wonderful?  Oh, yes.  I was told to prepare to leave at any moment.  Made total sense at the time, but what did it really mean?  That I’ll die so I need to be unattached to the world and centered, or a crisis is coming and so I’ll need to be prepared to leave the house?  The water sounds so happy…bubbling and frolicking in the pool.  Does the water carry the fumes of the oracle to me?

I remember reading in the American Book of Dying: Lesson in Healing Spiritual Pain where the authors Gross and Klauser talked of a medieval l’Hotel-Dieu–God’s Hotel–in Burgundy, France.  In the 15^th century A.D., this hospice served the social outcasts and was built over a river with a glass floor underneath the beds of the patients.  This way they could hear the soothing sounds of the moving water, as I am now.   I can tell this must be a special place, because I’m not aching from lying on the mossy ground.  This hospice had clean linens, also, almost unheard of in that time, even for the wealthy. 

Now I remember, another dream or experience, where someone in high authority asked if I wanted to go back and redo or eliminate some difficult times in my past. My parents were there, too, even though both are deceased for many years.  No, I said to all of them.  I wouldn’t change anything, as difficult as some things were at the time.  For then I wouldn’t be who I am today.  I wouldn’t have grown into the life I have, but still be stuck in the mundane, never having to be forced to have the opportunity to forgive both myself and another I deeply trusted, never having understood the great gift it is to be placed in a situation where one had to learn to forgive a deep wound.

The deeper the bond of trust with the person,

 the deeper the hurt and wounding,

the harder it is  to forgive,

 the more precious the gift of forgiveness

for oneself and for the other.

 May all  people who have been so hurt

 come to this gift of forgiveness

in the time that is right for them.

I went into the cathedral in the City of Ladies, at the corner of Hope and Despair.

Inside the chapel, off to the left, was a small wooden confessional.  I knocked, opened the door, went in, and sat down.  I was bathed in a soft blue light.  Looking up, I noticed a small stained glass window that said: “Sedes Sapientiae”, Latin for “Seat of wisdom”, one of Mary’s titles, so called because she was the vessel through which we received God’s wisdom incarnate.  I meditated on what “seat of wisdom” meant to me:

Being still

Listening carefully

Paying attention

Being thankful

Seeking beauty

Learning always

Forgiving yourself

Trying to understand

Giving yourself another chance,

And another, and another.

Knowing when to let go

And when to move on.

Finding strength deep within.

Amen.

As I left the confessional, a priest waved at me and sang out,

“This is the day that the Lord has made,

Let us rejoice and go home.”

I smiled back at him and was on my way.

© 2008 Kerry Vincent

Thalia followed the guidebook and signs to the Tholos.  As she climbed upward, she smelled the pine trees before she eventually arrived at a grove of the trees.  On either side of the entrance path leading into the grove were snakes on the trees.  Their serpentine motions reminded her of the medical caduceus and of the chakra-energy swirls ascending from root to head, weaving in the familiar sine-wave pattern. 

When she thought of this energy, and how we are all energy, she became aware of her third chakra starting to knot, quickly slipping into the total wounding of the fourth chakra—the heart.  She remembered her recent flash of anger, quickly turning to hurt and disappointment, and in turn, feeling the tears catch at the fifth chakra—the throat—as the pressure built up before tumbling out yesterday.  For the moment, it didn’t seem fair.  

Right now I feel some anger and, by hook or by crook, these snakes won’t keep me from entering the grove.  I stride in, with no fear even as I don’t want to become a woman as obnoxious as many I’ve known as they claimed their power and were determined not to allow a man to control them.   No, I don’t want to be like that even though it seems they get what they want because of their sometimes arrogant, demanding ways.  Maybe I need to change what I want, or better yet, allow for the real things I desire and release the old wants and needs.

She approached a clear pool.  I would love to sink into the soothing water.  She hesitated, then slipped off her clothes and melted into the warm water.  So clear… so wonderful…  Finding a comfortable, sloping ledge just perfect for reclining and being mostly submerged, she found, as always, in a warm bath, concerns and heartbreak wash away.  I always feel better in the water.  I really wish I could be gently floating in a hammock in the ocean, or even in a lake, able to view the beautiful surroundings, as I am dying.  Would be easy to drift away with awareness and gratitude for my lives as I leave it all behind and transform higher.  As she floated and closed her eyes, she relaxed easily into a place of peace, of the Oneness of All things.  She breathed deeply, releasing her inner toxins carried on air currents as well as those toxins carried on energy waves.  

She lost track of the time.

With a start, she climbed out, noticing her discarded clothing had been somehow replaced without her being aware.  Her satchel was gone, too.  Not that I’ve needed anything in it recently.  But it is was a leftover from the “be prepared” days, and frequently something within was helpful.  How much makes sense to be prepared and how much is trying to stay in control?  Always a thought.  As she slipped into the long flowing white gauzy dress—flowing and free—she was aware of a voice nearby saying her clothes and bag would be returned afterwards and to please follow.  The hazy outline of a woman led her into the Tholos. The music is so faint I am not sure if it is coming from within or without.  An altar!  I don’t have anything to leave on the altar, for even my concerns and questions are gone, so I’ll offer my gratitude such places even exist.

In respect, she nodded at the altar as she passed and continued to follow the misty outline down the tight, circular stairs, which reminded her of the winding stairs at the satsanghar at Dera.  This memory further centered her as it re-set her priorities.

Moving towards a labyrinth, she entered it, walking slowly and mindfully.  Such a serpentine way to walk—with folds undulating this way and then, that.  Perhaps that is why snakes guard the entrance.  This labyrinth reminds me of the first time I walked one—the huge canvas one at the Hospice Volunteer Inservice, so large I had a hard time finding a room large enough to hold it.  Needed to use the auditorium at the Health Department.  That kernel blossomed into the outdoor one at the new hospital built from our prompting.  To walk the labyrinth, tucked down low among the trees and near the fountain, between the overwhelming emotions emanating from the hospital on the hill and the overwhelming frantic-ness of the nearby traffic, seemed surreal.  The hollow the labyrinth was in was outside it all, in its own space and time.  As I am now…     

She weaved in and out the folds of the labyrinth, getting ever closer to the center and finally reaching a small pool where water bubbled up.  She realized she was alone, but wasn’t sure when the wraith had disappeared.  Reaching down into the water, she let the bubbles play with her hands.  She drank from cupped hands, then allowing the water to pour over her head and onto her heart.

A mossy area on the side of the pool formed by the underground springs looked so inviting.  How comfy looking!  Maybe I’ll just lie down here, I feel so dreamy.  Eyes closed, she listened to the murmuring, bubbling spring, and inhaled a sweet smell.  Is this the effects of the ethylene vapors the oracles used?  Plutarch said it was as if “the adyton was sending forth the essences of the sweetest and most expensive perfumes from a spring.”  Or is this from my being relaxed and un-anxious, everything harmonious… peaceful… our natural way of being…

Floating… drifting… She watched facets of her life as if she were in a boat with the people and events lined up along the banks in vignettes of moments.  This isn’t exactly my life flashing before my eyes so I guess I’m not dying.  More like a leisurely stroll through my life.  Maybe I can discern patterns better this way.  Yes, I was such a serious child… don’t make noise… don’t run in the apartment… everything will be better.  Mostly a serious child with bursts of fun. Mostly vigilant with moments of trust… look at the lilies of the field… quietly reading and writing… processing my life, processing me.  The woman over there  looks like Thalia, Muse of Comedy, from the Mouseion.  What is she saying to me?  Oh, “Lighten up.  Ride the rainbow.”  What rainbow?  I don’t see a rainbow.

She was floating in the sky now, amidst the stars as comets whizzed by, way above any river of events.  That comet seems close, and it’s coming closer.  I thought the tails of comets contained ice and rock, but this one seemed to sparkle.  Maybe the limited light is reflecting on the ice.  One particularly interesting piece drifted close, so she grabbed onto a natural outcropping on it and rode the comet.  I guess this is what Muse Thalia meant.  What an exhilarating feeling!  Like a roller coaster, but way higher.  What was it that Aristotle called a comet?  Oh yes, a star with hair – kometes – hair of the head.

The comet plunged on in the dark sky.  In the distance was a smudge of something. She and the comet drew ever nearer.  It was revealing itself to be a planet, growing ever larger as they approached.  Down they flew.  Are we going to crash?  Maybe I should get off?  Maybe I should wake up from this dream.  an I wake up?

Moving through a layer of clouds, she recognized they were going to crash into a rainbow—a huge rainbow.  Before she could duck or hop off—or wake up—she was immersed in the rainbow.

Ohhh! So many colors… so beautiful.  Droplets of mist of all colors.  Looks like a box of crayons.  Her ice chunk was melting as comet and rainbow merged.  She was on her own—flying downwards with the rainbow.  As it approached the ground, she could see this part of the rainbow wasn’t made up of mist or water droplets, but what appeared to be, shavings of crayons and colored pencils, of pastel chalk and paints.  Bits of the alphabet were interspersed: letters, words, phrases.  Even snatches of music notes and chords played. 

This is the rainbow my Muse Thalia meant.  The Rainbow of Creativity—lighten up—ride the rainbow—be creative.  Ram Das said, “Angels can fly because they take themselves lightly.”  Lighten up!   Laughing, giggling, enjoying the blend of color and words and music—she couldn’t help but to dance amidst it all.  Swirling, twirling, as the rainbow eased her down to the ocean and the beach.  She saw people on the sand, arms upraised, reveling and dancing in the creativity rainbow, as she gently landed. 

What a ride!  The Creativity Rainbow from Tholos.  What beauty!  Do I wake up now or am I already awake?

“We sh-sh-should’a brought a l-ladder!” Henry murmured.

“Wow.” This was awe, pure and simple.

Henry and I had decided to spend a day touring the famous center of learning in the City of Ladies, but we had not been prepared for the reality that stood before us. Our first glimpse as we’d turned the corner from Avenue Palazio to Museum Way seemed to indicate it was very close and yet we’d walked at least three or four blocks before arriving at the sweeping stone steps fronting the enormous sandstone building that was the entrance to a whole series of museums, courtyards, gardens and libraries.

The arched and sculpted bronze doors to the Lemurian Mouseion soared nearly twenty feet high. My first thought was disbelief at what we were seeing. Who could have had the artistic and engineering know-how to produce such massive metal doors? How could they have been hung?

“Legend says the doors grow in size as new knowledge and art are accumulated,” I said. Henry’s remark about the ladder was apt, but I was wishing for a bench where we could sit and study the intricate panels. I gauged the majority to be two feet square and, these, like pages in a book, hinted at the art exhibits inside. Architectural panels were tall and narrow and honored buildings easily recognized from around the world: churches like Chartres and Notre Dame, landmarks like the Empire State Building and the Eiffel Tower, even a replica of the Mouseion itself. Others were unknown to me. Every six feet or so long landscape panels divided the doors horizontally. Stepping back in order to see above my head, I saw the New York skyline and on the opposite door, Sidney Harbor and its sailing ship Opera House.

I probably would have stayed there for an hour or more trying to identify all the sculpted scenes when Henry asked, “H-h-h-how do we get inside?”

Too engrossed to have even pondered this obvious question, I blinked stupidly and admitted, “I have no idea.” I couldn’t imagine doors of this size and obvious weight swinging either in or out.

To my surprise Henry began laughing. “G-g-g-got it,” he said as his fingers searched the Mouseion in miniature. With barely a sound, the heavy doors eased inward as gently as a curtain blowing in the breeze.

There before us loomed a city within a city, with tree-lined streets, stone and wooden buildings and charming little shops.

To be continued.

Gaia was calling,

walking to the Mouseion,

telling the tale of Apollo and Daphne -

the same way the sun chased the moon.

The Bay Laurel whispered in the

warm breeze, of salt and sea

and wild lavender and olive hills, -

- as the books in the

Mouseion spoke the

tale, ancient of myth and song.

(copyright Imogen Crest 2008.)

            I had been sleeping ever so nicely on the magic Metro, dreaming of a wonderful, fantastical Story Land, where the writers were always inspired, where the verbs were always active, the plots always  plausible, the characters always fully-developed, and the endings came full-circle.  Never a cliché or a trite phrase, and the painters I met said their colors never muddied.  Singers always hit the high notes and guitarists never broke a string.  I liked it there.  I never wanted to wake from this fictive dream…

        “Wake up, wake up, we’re here,” said the Were-Pen, poking my arm.

        “We’re where?” I asked, yawning.

        “Next stop on your tour of Lemuria, maybe the most beautiful sight of all:  Rainbow Beach.”

        “Oh, no, Pen – may I call you Penny?”  The Were-Pen cursed, “May all my ink go dry instantly if I let you refer to be by that horrible diminutive moniker!”

        “All right, you don’t have to blot yourself, I won’t call you Penny,” I said.  “But please, Were-Pen, tell me, what’s so special about Rainbow Beach?”

        “See for yourself.”

        I opened my eyes and looked out of the window at the most beautiful beach I had ever seen.  I got off the Magic Metro and walked onto the soft, deep sand, which was gently rippling like a wave of warm pastels.  The light kissed each wave and glistened off the powdery sand.  It looked like I was standing inside a cleaned pearly, abalone shell.  

        The Were-Pen took a little bow and said, “I present to you, Rainbow Beach.  Not only is it beautiful, it is a place to relax, be inspired, and meet friends.  The Ladies of Lemuria like to gather here.”

        “To work?  To pray?”

        “Yes, and also to, ahem, ‘hang-out’:  that is, tell ghost stories, go to the Drive-in, tackle time lords, and imbibe a special green beverage.”

        “Sounds great!  When can I meet them?”

        “Soon.  We’ll walk along until we hear raucous voices, laughter, dancing, and a gypsy tambourine – Enchanteur and her entourage will be at the epicenter.”

This picture was taken around 4 years ago, the last time I saw this girl in person. Right now I’m many thousands of miles away, praying for her and for her family, particularly her dad, who is battling a very severe brain tumor.

This is a page remembering happier times, in a place we’ve both left but will always remember because of all the memories we made there.

credits:
flower, ribbon and frame – Eliza’s Bits: Profound Impressions Kit
papers and star button – Marie Stones: Rock Star Kit
friendship quote – Gina Maria

Actually, that’s the outer layer of my skirt. I love the combination of purple and green. It reminds me of lavender, my favorite scent.

It was my dad’s idea to use my skirt as a lace mantilla, a spanish lace shawl. And since I’m the picture, obviously I didn’t take it myself, which is quite rare! As the family’s “official photographer,” I always say that it is the photographer’s fate never to be in any pictures.

page credits here

Using this same layout, I made a cosmetics themed background for my sister-in-law. It was amazing how I could use the same basic background and layout and yet come out with a completely different look.

Emerging from the Mouseium into the bright sunlight, Thalia noticed not many people were around.  Maybe they take siestas here.  I’m exhausted and need to mull over all I’ve experienced so far on this walking tour.  It’s not only hard on my aging body and feet but also on my emotions. Time to mull this over and rest.

She ambled over to where a great oak shadowed a bench next to an abundantly flowering garden with a spring-fed bubbling pool.  Happy to rest her feet by sitting and her emotions by zoning out to allow for mulling as she enjoyed the lovely flowers and ferns, she plopped down.  Need to get these shoes off.  They’re great for walking but don’t let your toes move.   She leaned back, wiggled her toes and breathed deeply.  Looking at the cotton candy white clouds against the azure sky, she watched a bird far away dance among the fluff.  Hard to tell what kind of a bird.  Is that a seagull?  Maybe Jonathan Livingston Seagull?   Neil Diamond sang some great songs with fantastic words in his album recorded years ago.  “Where the clouds are hung for the poet’s eye.”  Anything to do with Thalia—muse of pastoral poetry?  And “I sleep, and I may dream…”  Maybe it’s an eagle?  An eagle’s eye view…up among the clouds…I sleep…I dream…

Rising on strong wings, she felt transformed once again.  The air felt invigorating as it raced against her face-that-wasn’t-her-face because what she saw and the way she saw was very different from usual.  Moving, free, light, ever upwards into and through the misty clouds… hung in the sky for the poet’s eye.  More like a bird’s eye view here.  How incredibly beautiful!  She had a sense of purpose, of having been set on a mission to travel.  She couldn’t remember what but just followed what seemed to be right, or maybe instinct.   She rose above the level where some other sea-birds were flying and thought again of the book she read back in the early 1970’s, Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach where Jonathan learns everything he can about flying, but his lack of conformity distances himself from the other seagulls.  He then meets two gulls who escort him to a place way beyond where all the others are flying in conformity.  He meets the wisest gull who teaches him that to move instantaneously anywhere, he needs to begin by knowing that you have already arrived.  We are already where we want to be.  Perhaps that is how I can change forms so easily—just by knowing where I want to be or rather, who I want to be.  And Jonathan learned that in order to be really free one must learn how to forgive. 

She seemed to have been released by something? someone? to take this form at ocean’s edge and now flew over mountains and rivers and valleys.

So exhilarating!  To be able to view so well at a great distance, without glasses, much better than glasses could ever be.  The details… the distance…  What’s that in the distance?  It looks like a classical temple but it’s all hazy.  I sort of see it, but sort of don’t.  Maybe when I get closer.

She finally approached right near the beam of haze, like a cloud extending down to the ground, encompassing what she thought was a temple.  Should I enter the haze?  Why not?  Just like the gar in the tunnel, this eagle needs to enter the unknown ahead.  Here goes…

 It was like she was standing still, the view around here didn’t change, just the view directly below her.  Like she was treading water somehow, but this was air.  And here was another eagle who came in from the opposite side.  A voice boomed:  Well done, my two eagles.  I, Zeus, released you so where you came together, one from the East and one from the West, there would be the omphalos, the navel of the world. The lines of force all come together here at the cleft from which emerges the sacred pneuma.  Watch and see what I, Zeus, foretell as the future of this sacred place. 

Caught in the vortex of time and space, she could only watch and wonder as the images flew by: chasm in earth with vapors escaping; sacred space for Gaia with goddesses Themis and Phoebe as the oracles; then sacred to Poseidon “Earth shaker,” the god of earthquakes and later-child of Gaia; Apollo arrives around 8^th century BC and expels the snake god Pytho, the serpent of Gaia, but Apollo honors him by maintaining his name for his priestess (Pythia) and for his games (Pythian); as Apollo is god of music and arts, the games held every 4 years incorporate music and the arts along with athletics; presiding Pythia priestess delivers oracles; fire destroys temple during First Sacred War about 590 BC; landslide saves Delphi from Persians about 490 BC; other Sacred Wars where control is taken by various Greek city states; 4^th century BC the  Macedonians seize it and save from Gaul invasion; Romans conquer in 189 BC; Sulla sacks site in 86 BC; Nero carts off statues in 51 AD; then the site sits neglected for many, many years after treasures and stonework are pillaged; earthquakes, dust and time cover the site; people build over and make a more modern village; French begin to dig in 1861 and find artifacts; the Greek Department of Antiquities move the village in 1891 to allow excavation; the French continue to dig and reconstruct buildings and a few columns as they unearth remains; studies show evidence of the presence of ethylene, a potential hallucinogen found at the temple location emanating from the chasm and fissures leading into the adyton (“do not enter”) sacred space where oracles were transmitted, as well as other surrounding areas.

But at the same time, she could also see nearby areas undergoing similar change: an amphitheater, seating 5000, being built in the 4^th century BC, restored in 159AD and later by the Romans; a stadium, seating 7000, well above the theater built in 5^th century BC with the four Roman pillars of the Triumphal Arch remaining; the comings and goings at the Castalia Springs tucked into a ravine, first a simple spring then a Roman fountain house then ruins; the Gymnasium built in the Greek classical period, rebuilt in Roman times, then a monastery; then ruins.

Also the Athena Pronoia Temple, “the Marmaria,” with earliest occupation as a Mycean cult center; then Temple Athena destroyed by a landslide 5^th century BC, replaced along with other structures; the circular, marble Thalos with 20 slender Doric columns built between 380 and 360 BC, falls to ruins before three columns are reconstructed in 1938; many tourists come.

Finally a modern museum built in 1902 where many of the ancient artifacts and statues are on display including the bronze Charioteer…oh!…I’ve seen that…spinning, stopping…haze lifting to show the way Delphi looks now from an eagle’s view… head spinning… clouds floating by… close eyes…

She woke with a start.  That dream?  Was it a dream?  It was from my world.  My world’s history.  My feet feel rested even if my head still is spinning with all the images and history in the passing of time.  But here I am in the Lemurian City of Ladies. What is the connection to the Delphi of my world?  Only way to find out is to follow the guide book and walk there.  Great scenery being an eagle, but now I have to rely on these two feet to move.

She looked at the clouds drifting by a moment with affection and nostalgia, pushed herself up from the bench.  A small sign next to the bench caught her eye:  “THIS AREA CONTAINS NUMEROUS SMALL FISSURES LEADING UP THROUGH THE LIMESTONE OF THE LOCAL GEOLOGY.  VAPORS POSSIBLE.” 

She smiled, and followed the path.

To My Dear Friends Back Home

I know you wonder what I’ve been doing since I left for the City of Ladies weeks and weeks ago

Well

so far:

I’ve spent my days

and many a dark night

 wandering through the City of Ladies.

I’ve been in the Catacombs

alone

of course.

Well

 I think I was alone

I’ve even been to the Circus

where I learned a thing or two.

Well

okay

it’s

been

mostly one…

I’ve haunted bookshops and curiosity shops and art galleries sat in a Tavern and listened

to stories

and drank wine and nibbled on cheeses from

places with names I can’t pronounce

and I’ve even worn my hair up

and

dressed in gowns made from silk

stolen

from Pirate Ships

and

handmade

by candlelight while music was

played on harps and songs were sung by women named

Felicia, Prisicilla and Carlotta.

I must say though

that something is missing.

That something that makes the days just days and the nights only nights

and the grand sights I’ve seen

merely pictures that my eyes capture and store in my mind

just like

neatly lined photographs

in

a photo album that gets placed in a linen closet

or lost under a pile of

books

high on a shelf

gathering dust

in the dark

So

I wonder

what that missing thing could be…

 Oh yea.

Sure.

That’s it.

What can I say?

There are

Songs to be sung and all that fun stuff!

More Later!

Love from

a.m.m.

papers and hair ribbon from the Victorian Kit by Rose Made Designs (http://rosemadedesigns.blogspot.com/)
drawing of girl by my friend, Victoria Cayton (http://kanzeon-bosatsu.deviantart.com/)

~~~

The history of modern painting apparently involves mysterious faded designs, blue plants, many intricate blue butterflies and a blue-haired-green-ribbon-wearing girl who loves to dream the day away.

The girl dreams up all the ideas, the arts of the world. As she dreams them, they appear in the book and become a part of the history of modern painting.

The book will never end until the girl stops dreaming.

Keep giving her ideas for the great history of modern painting.

Keep dreaming.