Lemurian City of Ladies

A Lemurian City Built in Memory of Christine de Pizan

Archive for the ‘Bath House Ruminations’ Category

Different Scrubs for Different Tubs

with 5 comments

Unnoticed

     as she looked down and watched

     as people came to the big tub

            for the scrub

 

Scrubbed

     of dirt from the here and now

     of all identity in life

            from strife

 

Scrubbed

     of preconceived notions

     of the dying process way

            identity new each day

 

Changes

     occur every day we live

     some visible rocks, some dust

            shape-shifters each of us

 

Wow, quite a difference from the Roman baths in Bath, England.  Those were for soldiers and aristocrats mostly.  Dame Washalot’s Bath House seems to cater to a full range of people and washes off more than just physical dirt and sweat.  From the sounds of it, the Dame scrubs deep to wash off self-doubt, inhibitions and preconceived notions.  What a delightful difference!

 

 

She flew out the window and returned for her satchel before changing back into herself.  Remembering her spa massage six years ago, about 8 months after her hysterectomy where the woman seemed to be trying to scrub out her scar and her surgery, she was ready for another massage, this one from the Dame.  With head held high, she walked to Dame Washalot’s Bath House and entered.

Written by thalia

June 20, 2008 at 10:37 am

Rub-a-Dub

with 9 comments

Rub-a-Dub, Me in the Tub Two

Rub-a-Dub

I’m in the tub

waiting for

Dame Washalot’s scrub.

Vi

Written by woodnymph

June 19, 2008 at 3:42 pm

Following the pebble

with 8 comments

look at this rock

Following the Pebble

Without land, memory and place I am like the young trapped Helen Keller. Yet as I dive into the depths of soul’s identity, freed from senses that distract me from the next journeys I might take, I become that wiser older Helen Keller who feels through the darkness the soul’s journey.

I meditate on a pebble I hold and then I toss it into a deep well where it never seems to land. I feel it fall. It speaks to my heart.

What would it be to have no garments of memory, land and place to tell me who I am.

No sense of tall Kauri pines to stare at out my back window. No kingfishers sitting on the cricket pitch next door. No endless rainy wet seasons where I wish I had a drier.

What would it be like to not think about what colours like black, red and yellow meant on an Aboriginal flag. To not know what the Southern Cross is, and to be free of a collective memory of colonisation and slavery and boats with people chained crossing the ocean to look after somebody else’s cotton or sugar cane. To not be moved by words of sorry that come late but are not too late?

What would it be like to stand at my front door and the front doors of every home I’ve lived in and not remember the nearby streets, and market places of stone of Salamanca and St Kilda and an early childhood friend who told me ghost stories.

What would it be like to have not been a mother, not been a wife, a sister or a daughter. To have all ties of kinship stripped away and have been left orphan, with no knowledge of a family tree crossing Europe and the Pacific. To have not seen funerals, births, and weddings.

What would it be like to have no knowledge of holy lands, and places of pilgrimage, of the grave of those who sacrificed for their beliefs and tore away the veils of meanings bound by memory, land and place- to reveal that there is more than memory, land and place to make us who we are.

I walk without all my memories, we all do. How many remember their journeys in the womb, and then their first steps and the first hugs from their grandmother’s? I travelled far when young and lost the sound of their voices, the touch of their hands, their wisdoms and their customs. I’ve lost their fears, their prejudices and many of their stories. Patchwork stories come through from parents who once knew them well and yet left them behind on other shores. They share their understanding of the stories, and pass on what they value.

I stand outside all that might form my identity and find that I free fall after the pebble, plunging into the place where there is no identity, but there is, the total immersion that first made the pebble.

© all rights reserved Gumbootspearlz




Poem- Cargo

Written by June

June 17, 2008 at 5:54 am

Bath House Moment

with 6 comments

EnchanteurBath

E caught at Dame Washalot’s Bath-house
Enjoying a quiet contemplative moment.

Heather Blakey June 16th 2008

Written by Heather Blakey

June 16, 2008 at 12:40 pm