Lemurian City of Ladies

A Lemurian City Built in Memory of Christine de Pizan

Archive for August 2006

The Dream of a Contemplative Life

with 2 comments

One of my alter ego identities (I have a few!!) is that of a contemplative monastic, living in seclusion and following the ancient rhythms of soul time. The word ‘hour’ comes from the Greek ’hora’ which refers to a measure of the soul, and not a measure of time. Each hour would then come bearing its own gifts and deep meaning which I would spend reflective time excavating. The name of my monastic settlement would be The Monastery of the Sacred Feminine and it would be set in the midst of a forest, with small huts sprinkled here and there around the area, and inhabited by other contemplatives like me. We would converge twice daily to meet in the communal sacred space, there to sing songs of praise and thanksgiving, expressions of our gratitude where each morning we would rise and learn anew what it is to be grateful just to be alive, to awaken and greet the new day as the gift that it is. Together we would re-affirm our commitment to opening our innermost selves to allow the breath of the Divine Feminine to blow through our souls. The rhythms and repetitions of the chants and bells would wash over us and draw us up into the heart of She Who Is. Such a mystical beginning to the day would water our souls with an underground river of love and mercy and carry us through the hours that lie awaiting our presence to them.

Parting company we would each walk slowly and mindfully back to our individual holy places, wherein we have created our own ritual spaces containing totems and talismans on our altars that act as reminders of the Divine. This is the place where we would balance our time with meditation, reading, writing, and holy leisure when whatever it is we create would be done as a dedication and gift to the Sacred. As it comes from Her, it returns to Her. In such a place as this we would be already living in paradise, because our time would not be the time of the outside world but the time of the soul, and so our souls would be linked together in a luminous web of connections between the sensible world and the other world, that which some call heaven. And so it is that I would walk in 2 worlds, keeping one foot in each. The sensible, everyday world would beckon forth those who would care for it for a couple of hours every morning, and this would require leaving my cell to work in the fields or the kitchens. Meals also would call us forth to be eaten silently and with care and attention for the gift that they are. Throughout the day the bells would ring to remind us, time after time after time, to listen, to hear the lesson of the hour, and to look deep inside ourselves to see if our intentions are pure; to see to what extent our wishes and desires are in alignment with the Love of the Eternal Feminine. Later when dusk turns to darkness we would meet again in the sacred space and together sing and chant our gratefulness for the day that She Who Is shared with us, before retiring for meditation and interior searching of our deepest inner selves, to review our actions of the day and the intentions that lay behind them. Then we would lie down upon our little wooden beds and resting our heads upon the pillows, close our eyes and place ourselves, body and souls, into the hands of the Divine Feminine.

Written by Edith

August 31, 2006 at 10:46 am

Posted in High Priestess

Meditation

with 4 comments

MEDITATION

Sitting still,

breathing deeply,

empty mind,

floating in a sea of tranquillity.

Occasional clouds,

unbidden thoughts,

pass by,

moving on

and out of the picture.

Diving deep

leaving the surface behind,

I surrender to the Presence.

Written by Edith

August 31, 2006 at 9:36 am

Posted in High Priestess

GRATITUDE

with 8 comments

GRATITUDE
Grateful am I to be alive, to have the family, the friends,
The talents and gifts that have been given me.
Grateful am I also to be born in a country where
Freedom is allowed and in a time when
I am the mistress of my own destiny.
Rich am I in the things that truly matter. No dollar or ruble,
Dinar or peso could ever match the many blessings
That have been given me.
And though life is hard sometimes, and however forgetful I become,
I cannot disregard for long, the beauty and the wonder which
Surround me, or the love and support that has been given me.
Thank you, Heavenly Father, for making me who I am, a unique,
Divine Daughter of God. Someone of worth, who’s not a mistake.
Someone with an active, intelligent mind. Someone with a generosity
Of spirit, who has a bit of feistiness to her to make things interesting.
I am a good person, and grateful am I to know it. Grateful am I also
That I like myself, inspite of my faults and my weaknesses.
Thank you, Mom and Dad, for all you’ve taught me, for the advice,
The wisdom and experience you’ve lent. For your friendship and love.
Unmentioned, until now, are the trials and tribulations I have faced
And will face. Hard though they were, and will be, they have helped
Me grow and learn and will continue to unto my death.
For that, I am grateful.
Dear Father, please help and always remind me to count my blessings,
Never forgetting or losing sight of what’s important.
Eternal Life.

August 27, 2006

I am no poet–but when inspiration strikes…ya gotta go with it. *soft, brief smile*

Written by aletta mes

August 31, 2006 at 2:52 am

Posted in Salon de Pizan

Thursday morning tea

with 2 comments

Seniors day at our Cafe
The elders meet and greet
talk of the day,the weather, the news or when Old Seventy
sold her shoes for a pair of red gumboots
or the time that Fifty-Seven met Sixty-two
or the grandchild that swallowed the cherries
from Grandma’s hat
and had to be pumped–now that
reminds me,  “Do you recall that time you painted
Gran’s   Cadilac  firy red with the can we found
by Gramp’s old barn?”

Square dance meetings in Poplar School
or teacher Black who broke her rule
over Bill’s hard head?  Wasn’t she the one
we caught kissing Jim’s brother?  And how we teased
her next day ’till she blushed?

Written by cronelogical

August 31, 2006 at 1:25 am

Lunch Box Globalization

with 4 comments

The lunches my mother prepared for my sister and I reflected the Standard American Diet of the mid-20th century, which unfortunately did live up to its acronym, S.A.D.   Typically, it was sandwiches– white bread with some sort of processed protein (processed cheese slices, nitrate-laden lunch meats, canned tuna) or some sort meat left over from our dinner before.  Now, don’t get me wrong– my mother made these sandwiches with a great deal of love and she can’t be blamed for the organic, healthy-eating trend happening after her kids were grown.  And, truth be told, some of these sandwiches were actually pretty darn good.  My sister and I agree that a cold meatloaf sandwich on white bread with pickles and mayo is one of the great comfort foods.

Today, though, we have more options.  And these options are propelled not only by the healthy-eating trend, but by globalization as well.  For example, this morning I had to decide if I wanted left-over Chicken LoMein from my dinner the night before, or if I wanted to go to my cafeteria at work and get Lasagna (it’s Italian week) or go off-site to get Mexican carnitas or Lebanese shwarma.    It would never have occurred to our mother to give us anything other than our SAD sandwiches simply because our world was smaller when we were kids. 

The perfect illustration of what I am trying to convey is this:  Right now, as I type this, it is my lunch hour at work.  I am eating my Chinese LoMein and writing a post that is going to be read by people from Australia, Canada, Ireland, Europe and all over.   That just boggles my mind.  

Thanks for sharing lunch with me.

 Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

Written by Pelican1

August 30, 2006 at 7:29 pm

Posted in Salon de Pizan

Lunch for L’ Enchanteur

with 5 comments

Nestled to one side luscious sweet

Purple grapes, musky, heady as deep

Crimson wine where dreams sleep

In waiting.

A nectarine, a peach, the rose blush

Of pears.

Bread twists, malted yeast, stimulate

Taste buds, memories of childhood

Baking; mother, grandmother, all mothers

Who opened their ovens to check rise,

And made promises later of slices,

With butter and jam.

Milk, innocent, pure and aroma

Of coffee, ground roast, Brazilian;

Dancing, strutting flamenco,

Poor street kids, playing football,

The Christos looks over them all:

In the shade of a tree she sews seeds;

The Madonna?

Such beauty, so complex –

Yet more, she wants more.

Woman – the Goddess,

Fiery but gentle:

Let’s leave one another

These moments, so precious,

Of quiet and peace.

Jan

Written by jan2

August 30, 2006 at 11:01 am

Posted in Salon de Pizan

Little Lunch Box Horrors…

with 7 comments

The unwary hand gropes in the depths of the school bag – what horrors lie below the books, the crumpled bits of paper, permission notes they forgot to give you, missives from their teacher asking you to come and `have a chat about your child’, a pair of wet muddy socks, a homework project they `forgot to tell you about’, swap cards, leaking ballpoint pens, art work they were supposed to give you to tape on the fridge, muddy gym shoes…
Beneath this vile repository of your child’s school life lies the greatest horror of all, the grinning corpse of your carefully balanced nutritious lunch – not even the one you packed that morning. The one you packed on Monday.
Yes, the one with the chicken sandwiches, the pot of strawberry yoghurt and the banana. By now the chicken sandwich has grown fur and is trying to eat its way out of the lunch box. The yoghurt has obliged it by swelling up and popping the lid. The banana escaped the horror in the lunch box but died a grisly death on the bottom of the school bag, it’s blacked corpse clinging with its last dying gaseous breath to your child’s math homework.
“How did this happen?” You demand.
“I forgot.”
Forgetting to eat your lunch is one thing, forgetting it for a week the act of the devil’s spawn, watching with intense interest as you scrape the stinking remains of the banana off the homework.
I can see it now, my child’s face turning to the teacher with a Machiavellian smile – “a week old banana ate my homework, Miss.”
Some sainted mothers would scrape out the lunchbox too, and soak it in hot water and bleach until it was fit to use again. Not this one. The whole thing gets tossed in the bin and I dive under the sink for a new lunchbox.
Oh, yes, I have quite a stack of them standing by, these brightly coloured coffins for deceased lunches. You never know what you’ll find when you plunge your hand into your child’s school bag.

Written by Gail Kavanagh

August 30, 2006 at 9:52 am

Posted in Salon de Pizan