Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Common magic for an 'Ole Moon

The parallel stories began once we hit the ground. Funny, the sound of that is exactly right. When those jet wheels hit the tarmac at SEATAC we were in the latter throngs of chaos but we had learned a lot, would have many more experiences to integrate; but, we were into the practice. There would be no turning back.
O ke kahua mamua, mahope ke kukulu. The site first; and then the building. Learn all you can, then practice. - 'Olelo No'eau
The pollens have begun their riotous beginnings, stirred by the strong winds and the songs that wing their way through the trees; spring is here. The bees are back. Since I was a girl I have been allergic or sensitive to seasonal changes, etc. This post is not about that so much as it is the remedies and the magic that have been my solution to not being able to ... play with the other kids because I was sick. My sixty-seventh season is familiar in some ways. My swollen glands and discomfort challenge me; I rest more.


What this post is about are the parallel stories "Medicine Stories" I have called them. Not for the first time are myths, parables or truth stories called medicine. They are the original medicine to many First Peoples, and as I sit out of the wind and the swirling pollens on this 'Ole Po time the winds' songs remind me how, and why, the stories that came want to have their due appreciation. As I write I heard the thud and rattle of a tree falling close-by. I reflect on life, and unravelings.






First, there was Sam and Sally (2008).  "This is the story of the poisonous apple disease. It reads like fiction but alas, it is true." I was new to the world of fiction, and the experiences of living with that 'poisonous apple disease' so raw there had to be a way to step through the hell of it. Later in the story of those two old dear came a poem called "Braid" it reads like this ...



Upon one head
The plait does lay
Over under,
Over under,
One hank at a time.

Upon one head
The tale is wove
Over under,
Over under,
Whose voice is shown?

Upon one head
A voice still timid
Calls for a hand
Over under,
Over under,
The words grow in timber.

Upon one head
The plait does lay
The tale woven
Hand to finger
Finger to Heart
Forged like silver.

Braid the tale, teller.
Braid the tale.




I have long loved the braid. To handle each hank, to see the plait laid flat, and to feel the sense of more than one version become a whole 'nother ... there is a visceral satisfaction in it. Filling. Tactile. And metaphoric at the same time.




Common magic. Weaving is one of those practices of magic. Words and images speak for the loss that my soul has difficulty with. What is truth and what is fiction? In the braiding one and other over lap. And, then the hanks can become undone.




P.S. The software bug is back, blocking my attempts to add pictures. Instead a lot of extra space is showing up. Any sort of mischief is possible when working during the  'Ole moon. 'Aue.






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