Wind Walking

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I sat with Issy on the creek bank. A slow lazy brackish run of water making its way to the sea, not quite tidal ,still with some ebb and flow. But that was how the days passed, ebbing and flowing with the tides, man made, and natural. It was simple , breathable, back in those thick southern woods. Just the sounds of the woodland spirits going about their daily regimens. The gentle flights of the brilliantly colored dragon flies & that occasional plop of a fat frog breaking the waters gloss with a dive from the creek bank. We could both lay back and peruse the elements on days like this, a soft solitude allowing each moment to be a heady buffet of life. Issy ran her fingers through the dark satiny mud that made up the creek bank , albeit all the land this close to the ocean. She observed the trails her fingers made in the rich substance and remarked that it was like the bacon drippings she saved from breakfast in the mornings. Rich and full of sustenance. She was more right than wrong is this observation as she usually was with most of her remarks upon the simpler world of her existence. I had to smile to myself because I was a mere traveler in her world. Oh I don’t know, I have always called it “wind walker” my strange predilection for transcending time and space. But she was right, that rich black riverbank mud was the fat of the earth, added through eons of foliage and the like digested and layered upon the earth as our world continued the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. Issy met my gaze with luminous dark eyes, those knowing eyes, that said we were both strangers to each others time as our abilities were alien to most who inhabited each of our own realities. But here on the creek bank we were friends. Issy wiped a rivulet of sweat from her cheek, an ebony skinned girl with high cheekbones more predominate now as she was enduring the turbulent period of reconstruction in the deep south which made food scarce and life tough. Her cotton frock was the lightest of pinks ,many times mended and a salvage from the big house when the northerners came through. But today was today, and the breeze gentle, so in this NOW we went deeper in our conversation than the topicalities of clothing and food. She dug her toes deeply into the rich cooling riverbank mud. “Is it this way for you?” she asked “in your NOW?” I pondered, and replied “Sadly our earth is not as rich nor as fat”, the thought of mud like bacon renderings still hanging between us both. “We seem to be starving her and she is growing thin. Oh we think we are rich and free ,but I’m afraid that is all an illusion.” Issy pursed her lips and gave me a long knowing gaze. “ The mud, it is the fat of this world, the water it’s blood, the roots of the many plants and trees it’s sinew and the rocks it’s muscle. Are we the heart or the head I wonder?” She asked. I thought of my NOW, my world in which machines and time ruled with a sovereign fist. “ Oh Issy, I think we were created to be the heart, but somewhere things went terribly wrong, we became analytical and detached. We wanted predictability,and although there is great joy in the ride of the unpredictable, too many became less spiritual and less trusting of the simple notion of being. Nature, the wild things that do not question but accept, exist, and enjoy. They are the heart. Maybe those few of us that embrace simplicity, that exist with nature and dance among the spheres are still pulsing within the heart. But too many have tried to become the head. In my estimation the head is very ill, lost from what the Creator intended long ago, there is no unison or joy in the dance that is life anymore, in my Now.” Issy leaned back against the cypress knees that made a gentle perch in the thick forest. “You will get back you know, just like we did here in my Now.We drifted away, it was cruel and hard, yet many of us found joy in simplicity, whether it was sweet butter coming in the churn or the sight of a newborn calf frisking across a springtime field, we embraced each second, I believe the Creator decided to give us another chance, so to speak.” She was braver, stronger and more intuitive than I knew I would ever be no matter how many winds I walked. I inhaled the rich pungent forest air made intoxicating and more vibrant by the interaction with the creek as it transcended landscapes on its journey to the sea. “ Thats why I come here Issy, to feel, to touch, to be. My NOW is devoid of spirits and seemingly lost to the Creator, I am here, I believe to learn, to take things back from one time to the next, things lost in our hurry to get home, but racing to a home where one does not know the family. In my time even those with magnificent houses are in fact, homeless, they just don’t know it. Yet it nags at them deep, deep in their souls , I think, I hope, so they keep looking for the path. ” Issy nodded her head ,eyes focused off into a distance I was not privy to comprehend. “I wonder, truly,  how much has been lost in all the chances the Creator has given us?”  she asked. This resonated with me, so here lies the answer to all my disconnects through the years,  found here in the ether on a creek bank beneath coordinates of my birth.  “Thanks Issy , you just answered the question of  my now, you, I, and the others, we are going to find it, all of it we can, bring it to my now and hope the souls of my time can find the path home , before the Creator decides to send them back once again.”  I answered. Issy clenched her jaws, “Being sent back is tough, are you going to use the machine ? What if you loose it with the machine?” I looked upwards at the view of storm clouds building through the forests cover  ” Then we will have been sent back and we will already know, the object will be not to loose it this time”  Issy rose to her feet “Well I’m here and I’m using Wally” I could not help but smile as the world started to spin as it always did when I detached, Wally was a big Red rawboned mule I had known forever ,we met when he used to pull quarry stones for the Roman aqueducts, now he was carrying a freedwoman home in the southern reconstruction. “Some day you’re going to tell me where all you’ve been Issy, but in this time I need to pull from your Now” She laughed spun on her heel and sauntered off down the path. I looked back at the creek, dark and swirling with the genetics of eternity as it rolled to the sea and I rolled to my now, a little stronger than before.

Maybe the Winds

The waves of Alexandria have known the carnage of your Gods, time in and time again, Or let me backtrack and say , those you call your gods, my friends, your miscalculation is great ! Let me allow you to dance in my world or worlds, but only for a second , We are the night and the day, we are the tremors and sweat you feel as the sun wakes unto the dawn, and you dream the deep dreams in the unknown. Allow me to announce ourselves, we are the dreamers, the singers the. artists , THE MAGIC OF A MILLION STARRY Nights, we are the beginning and the end. We are the smoke from the papyrus when the Library of Alexandria went into flames, and yes, we are the taste of blood on the waters from your stupid miscalculation , we are the knowledge lost, and yet remembered on the winds , Oh you thought you were that good? Allow me to introduce myself, I am the bitch of your darkest hours that howls on a the moonlit hillside for her lost pups Romulus and Remus,, yes I am the one that has nipped at your heels for millennia, waiting to skewer a tendon and leave you hobbled. I am the one who sailed the waters to the dark isles of Arthurian legend and took repast on the islands of the mystical spirit. Maybe I am Morgian , maybe I am Gaia, Maybe I am unknown to you , a whisper on the wind, that may become a storm of unimaginable proportions, then again maybe I am the light against the dark. So for those lost, be appraised of your lovers, they are not lost, but they are found, and from this day forward a war has been declared that will make even the babes in the womb struggle, So stand if you think you can, but the bitch from hell has been unleashed, except she is from the light , and the very gates of Heaven will open in her path , while hell falls in her wake, You want to take me? Try Me,

 

Halfway There

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Half way there, living in the then and living in the now. As the Spring dances into Summer I get lost in the great what was, and the great what is. I want the sweet sting of sun kissed skin as thirsty late afternoon raindrops slap gently against the thick leaves of the magnolias. I want to smell the creamy blossom’s heady, sweet fragrance mixed with the salt tanged sea air rolling in off the beach. I want to tuck my legs under me on the porch swing and simply to daydream listening to the seabirds call in the endless expanse of the marshes. I want to hear the roar of thunder far off in the distance and feel in my untamable core the wild cracks of lightening hungrily licking a white capping ocean . I want the crisp feeling of sweat rolling down my chest and evaporating in the late afternoon’s gentle breezes, the tangy taste of lime, gin & tonic water and the light headed feeling I get when one enjoys such after day in the sun and sea.

I, who have watched the many colored Aurora glow and pulse over far mountain ranges on long cold winter nights as my soul danced far away in Spanish moss bedecked swamps under the full moon. I, who fell to my knees in a patch of new born grasses where the edge of Wyoming kissed the edge of Nebraska, giving thanks to the first point southward where the earth finally gave a spongy bounce to bare feet as she kicked off the vestiges of winters chill. I , who feels my pulse quicken like the embrace of a lover and a tear on my cheek when I roll across the mighty Mississippi and enter the rolling bluegrass country of Kentucky. I, whose heart lifts as I travel the twisting roads of Tennessee. I , whom is reborn when I breathe in the musky rhododendron scent of the Carolina Mountains.

Half way there, living in the then and the now. I miss the smell of chicken frying the kitchen and the musical laughter of the cooks echoing across the emerald lawn on a Sunday afternoon. Silk, linen and pearls. Fresh cut hay and horses romping in the new mown field. So maybe it’s time to forget the now and celebrate the then. I choose to be the woman who rides bare legged, barefooted, and bareback down red dirt country trails as the sun says goodbye for the night. I choose to be the woman who watches the tendrils of red dance from a strawberry in a chilled glass of chardonnay on a cool Mountain night and is mesmerized. I choose to be the woman who can pull a trout from the stream , cook it on the fire  and yet, still don silk and high heels to dance to night away. I choose to be the woman who knows the spells of the Gullah, the mysteries of the Cherokee and never forgets the innate magic of my Irish roots. I choose to be the woman who knows to scramble across the deck and tack sail as the squall approaches. So halfway there means another leg of the journey still to come. I am the woman who will take the best of then, make the most of now and never ever forget to enjoy the ride.

 

 

 

Sisters of Epona

A cold day down here below the Mason Dixon Line ,the skies are that shade of steely grey that predicts the onset of snow & ice across the Carolinas. The forests are dark , the ranch dogs are stealthy, and the horses just want to dance sideways in anticipation of a wide open run back to the warmth of the stable. But I guess my mind often wanders as we amble the leaf strewn paths of the Carolina forests. Sometime I am here and sometimes I am out there with my kindred spirits. Those of us who gulped strong coffee this morning, said the hell with yesterday’s manicure and anything in between that meant back to work on Monday. Yeah I will give it this, we are so connected yet so far apart. But I can pretty much guess all across this big old world, dogs were kicked off beds, soft blue jeans were pulled on, make up was an after thought, boots were laced and cars warmed. The smell of sawdust and straw, was the elixir we craved. The warm nicker of our counterparts in the dance of the decades, was music to our ears, soul rising, spirit cleansing and that all empowering essence that makes so many days bearable .

 

Yeah, I can see you now. Freckled face, red tendrils of hair peeking out from under your cap ,a big white quarter mare hackamore ridden , a sideways driven snow blowing across the Nebraska cornfields, but your face is in the wind, and the cornfields are lying fallow so daddy won’t mind if you chase magical dreams wide open to edge of the south forty. And you, with the long dark hair hanging about your shoulders, a muscular little appaloosa dancing between your legs, the Blackfoot flag tosses in the winds behind in the distance. Considering a run to jump the cattle catcher at the end of the road and hit the open country like your sisters before you? You know you will, you will breathe in their wild untamable spirits on that wide open country and yes, your resolve will be fortified. And there you are too, short bobbed blonde hair tossing about your shoulders, dampness permeating your clothes as you run your fingers through the long mane of the big black Tennessee walker. Hitting a lick and strolling amongst the ghosts of our history on southern trails decorated by Spanish moss laden trees as the blue heron in the marshes casts a side eye and acknowledges you as friend not foe. This I know, each of us , a some point pulled our mounts to stop , absorbed that between the ears view we all hold so sacred , took a deep breath, and let’s be honest ,we prayed to no one’s God in particular. But we sure as hell thanked the one that created all that we embraced on our myriad of journeys today. And to be honest, I think heartfelt thanks is rare in this odd dissociative time, so maybe God had a tear his eye and a bit of hope for us all, Hey God, your window holds some magnificent views! But as it is, the miles may be many, the terrain may be varied. But under this Moon , this Sun , this sky ,on this earth, we are one.

To the Sisters of Epona, I salute you! My spirit is your spirit, and as we light a candle after our days under the sky, inhale the sweet fragrance and relax in our baths, we are one upon the ether , we are one in the dreams that come in the night. May my Southern Tennessee Walker meet your Range bred Appaloosa and your prairie raised Quarter mare on the free ranges of our nighttime dreams, may we chase the winds, embrace the week to come, and know forever in our hearts that the connection falls beyond the realm of mortals and the weekend is soon to come. Ride it hard.