More about Moemoea'ali'i: ancient story, new story, collective story

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I hardly know where to begin.

Sometimes tendrils or rootlets of thought, like the bright colors that magnetize a bee with a promise of nectar, pull me this way then that way. Ironic that those same tiny brilliant blue flowers with dots of yellow at their centers are so powerfully fragrant with pollen I clog up with allergic reactions to them.

So many things are sprouting in my interior landscape, matched only by what is happening all around me as spring settles herself into the 'aina that is where we are in the Pacific Northwest. My six to eight weeks of woods-bound isolation overlays itself over the retrograde of planets happening as I find the letters to make sentences. Just as I cannot do anything to move the planets in their journey, there is little I can do (alone) to affect the Scotch broom growth on the highways of Whidbey Island.

Frog dreams

Picking up where we left off ... 

The long and consistent legacy of Frog as go-between for the species ... being able and adept with water and land worlds, fueled Bernadette with agility. Her dream was seasoned with a question that had her tongue dangle from her large, wide mouth. "Hungry with meaning, and morsels to retrace myself," again she was speaking loudly making her voice, her song available to any helpful spirits.

T.F. was along for her ride tonight. It was a place of respect that put him at his Queen's side. Bernadette had lived other lives when being queenly had meant she supported a regent with all her powers: she gave all her energy up and in the process had nothing left for herself. It had been a long, long time ago. A 'Once upon a time' time. Recalling her legacy, Bernadette swatted at the flies that buzzed around her in the dreamtime; most of them were fat and tender, tasty bites.

Art Credit

As she swallowed the essence of each of those flies had separate effects. She found it necessary to rest as she digested. "This little fly was tasty at first, but the after-affect? Sticky in my gullet. That little fly, was hardly worth the effort." The Frog King marveled at the finely-tuned discernment and wondered, to himself, how she did it. Still quiet in his observation he also wondered: "What does it matter?"

While Bernadette rested in her dream, she slid into the side-ways slope of dreaming while one dreamed. A very chalky reality it allowed a frog to see from multi-faceted eyes. Her purpose for dreaming was to answer the question of whether she (the Queen of Frogs) had taken her guardianship of the human, named for a bird, as if to keep a pet. In the wall of mirrors Bernadette could see the answer. Tamed, pampered, fed and kept a pet is dependent, and at worst, powerless.

Lokea was an aging human woman with a destiny to be reassembled and made to remember she was not powerless ... unless of course, she believed she must be pampered, fed and dependent upon someone more sovereign.

At this point, the Queen woke. Her large frog eyes focused. T.F. had his long arms stretched out in front of her. "What are you doing?" she was truly perplexed.

"I'm trying to prevent you."
"Prevent me? Prevent me from what?"
"I'm trying to prevent you from seeing what you see."
"THAT is preposterous," Bernadette swatted skillfully with her tongue, using it as a whip. T.F. withdrew, feigning pain.
"The exercise was worth the tongue-lashing." The Frog laughed. "I couldn't help the pun. But, truly my Queen, you are not without your inner wisdom, your common sense. You did not let my pitiful attempt to obstruct you have any effect."

Bernadette understood. The message was better than all the flies put together. To be a pet, one might make a conscious choice to be one. That would end with a consequence to live with. The Bird, Lokea, was grieving the loss of a wild animal who had given herself to be a Familiar ... NOT a pet. The decision to turn a Familiar into a Pet was a human's uninformed or 'entitled' action. Sorting through the karma and the destiny of Queen Frog and Woman named bird, it was the screech of the owl that made the difference.

********************** Two times were meeting on the border of reality. The Boundary was important to both Frog and Woman. Bernadette was in the past, looking and preparing to deal with time when the Panther, Lokea's Familiar, was taken as a wild one is hunted. *******************
In the dreamtime, The two frogs would return to spill their findings into a cup filled with Nectar of Place. Both here, and there, the grounded Earth time and the spirit time of frog dreams were what Bernadette fished for.

Lokea Bird would need the freshly-filled Nectar of Place to grow herself into herself, the next necessary step in satisfying her soul's deepest desire.

"Ah," said T.F. to himself. He saw what his Queen dreamed and nodded in appreciation. 

Placeholder Soul: a Saturn in Scorpio story

"Placeholder names are words that can refer to objects or people whose names are temporarily forgotten, irrelevant, or unknown in the context in which they are being discussed." - "Placeholder name" Wikipedia

"I am a old woman," it wasn't an excuse. As the two of us stood at the entrance to the nightclub it was a statement. The guy was asking for my I.D. My date was laughing out loud.


"You're kidding right?" I looked the bouncer in the eye; I looked up off the top of my trifocals and waited for his answer. Right, I should have been ... what? Felt complimented. Neither of us seemed primed with humor that night. And, my partner played along waiting to see what happened. The chicks behind us were fumbling for their wallets, and didn't mind waiting as I finally fished my driver's license from my purse.


Humor must have finally bit the guy, he looked at my picture, and the date. D.O.B. November 16, 1947. He was grinning now. "Wow, you're the same age as my grandmother."


"Told you!"


The young man with seriously bulging biceps bowed low. Maybe he forgot his contacts or maybe what my husband kept telling me was true-- "You don't age. How do you do that?" I never look in mirrors, haven't got one big enough to look at so I've stopped bothering.




This is a bit of fiction wrapping itself around truth, it's my process of making my way through a time of de-stabilization (it's Saturn retrograde and Jupiter retrograde ... so luck and understanding are both on hold). I'm giving thanks on a Kane Po (a Kane phase of the moon) and seriously considering the effects of the recent dose of medicine I received last week. The small wooden kinolau appeared on the beach after a session with my medicine woman. We worked with some very old and lingering soul pain, and the specific effects that pain has when spring and the rites of pollen riotously fill the environment where I live.


Now ... to disclose and continue with the story, I find it necessary to shift from truth to myth to be comfortable moving forward. That's why I'm mixing things together here. The definition from Wikipedia is significant. This is about Placeholder names. We've all had occasion, or seasons, where we can't remember the name of something and call the thing a whatchacallit. If you're as old as I am the gizmo might be a placeholder name for the hand-held thingy that makes phone calls and takes pictures.


The short conversation with the old woman being asked for her I.D. by the young man with serious biceps is meant to breed a little silliness, because the issue my medicine woman and I are dealing with has to do with rituals of gratitude and acceptance. At this point in my life (Saturn retrogrades back into Scorpio for the last time in my lifetime) I'm calling on my Ancestors and the Soul they have cared for (that is me) This is about clicking of sticks to ask the ancestors for help. It's the Placeholder Soul I've forgotten to acknowledge and give gratitude to.


Let's see how I can unwind the story well enough.


When I was trying to make sense of life for the umpteenth time back in 2008, I hunted up a psychic who read Akashic Records. She told me that when I was born, the soul assigned to me was not yet ready for prime time Earth life. The primitive reality of Earth was too much for this other star system soul. In a nutshell Earth did not look like a safe place to be living the rest of her life. So ... she opted out. Played the waiting game. Well, no baby can be born on Earth without a soul. It just can't happen. Remember Raven and the Whale? It's a story about every living being having and needing a soul. If you haven't listened to that story, it would be worth a little diversion ... really!


In my case, my pre-mature purple skinned baby girl self needed a soul. A Placeholder Soul, a 'simple and down-to-earth' soul stepped in to take the reluctant other star system soul meant for me. For sixty-one years BakBak (the name I gave my Placeholder Soul; a character name I borrowed from one of Sheherazade's 1001 Tales of the Arabian Nights) had been my soul's guide. The work was complicated by the eventual arrival of that reluctant other star-system soul. For decades the two souls have tugged and pulled at my life path like a rubber band.


When I began working with the psychic in 2008 she sent BakBak off to have a soul's life independent of me. I never said a true good-bye, nor did I set up an altar where BakBak's memory, and sacrifice is acknowledged every day. Can you imagine what it's like to have two souls for sixty years? Let me tell you the astrological natal chart could tell you a lot if you read charts.


Anyway ... on and on.


My medicine woman and I have begun the work of gratitude for my Placeholder Soul, BakBak. Placed at the altar, along with Kainoa this old woman who appears to be aging in reverse does the work while Saturn reverses into the sign of my Sun, Chiron, Mercury and Mid-Heaven. Perhaps the elixir of compassion for both my Placehold Soul and me can be concocted this spring. An offering for the approaching New Moon in Pisces and Solar Eclipse at Equinox.


A lot goes into making a life, with a soul that dances for the fullness of being human. Without reservations, this kind of life could embrace springtime with all its bombastic appreciation for life. I have much to unlearn, and BakBak in his/her new place of honor at the altar can help from the other side of the borders.


See why both myth and truth must braid for a full, complicated story requiring time (Saturn) and depth (Scorpio)?

What is myth(ic)?

"These are mythic times...The challenge is to not see [the] trilogy of body, mind and spirit/ manaoio, manaolana, and aloha as a linear sequence, rather as an event
happening simultaneously and holographically"

-Manulani Aluli Meyer

A myth is a guide; it tells us what we must do to live more intensely. If we do not apply it to our own situation and make the myth a reality in our lives it will remain as incomprehensible as a board game which often seem confusing and boring until we start to play
-Karen Anderson

 "Myth in Hawaiian is defined as  "Mo'olelo ... story, tale, tradition, legend, journal record, article succession"
-Hawaiian Dictionary, Pukui and Ebert

 "As our storytellers continue to draw upon past knowledge, including looking to the animal world and to tribal storytellers for guidance, we grow in strength. We reshape our ancestors' stories for our children, so that these tales will, like our people, our spirits, endure."
- Carolyn Dunn

The water of Kane -- wai -- wealth and precious of all resources falls thick and abundant. The rain fills our rain barrel, and at the sink the last of our water bottles is filled with drinking water filtered and ready for a new day. I sit to write this morning, as Hina moves into the phases of thanksgiving. Tonight will be Kane Moon. One of the two nights especially important to give thanks to the gods, our guardians our 'aumakua  who give us life.

Hahai no ka ua i ka ulula'au
Rains always follow the forest.
The rains are attracted to forest trees
Knowing this, Hawaiians hewed only the trees that were needed
-'Olelo No'eau Hawaiian Proverbs

Can you smell rain coming? Link here for some beautiful photos and description of The Smell of Rain 

I'm preparing and gathering content for the workshop "These are Mythic Times" that starts in two weeks. Several different sources contribute to the process of this myth makers workshop and as teacher and epidemiologist Manu Meyer has suggested in the quote that opens this post, it does me well to see the process holographically.  Holographic is a fancy word for what Hawaiians would say is kaona ... "hidden meaning in Hawaiian poetry; concealed reference; hidden meaning." The process and the method for teaching this workshop start with appreciating the means of myth. To my way of thinking, myth is a recipe whose time has never gone out of fashion but might have become a recipe that has been taken for idle and impractical delusion. "Fairy tales" implying flights of fancy with no place in the real world. In all enduring cultures across time the proverbs, poetry, stories teach us through images and words that layer meanings so a child can understand and be given hope; and later a teen can see her heroic nature through a morphing pubescent hall of mirrors; later, a striving adult reads the same story and seeing the mirror cracked or a faceless woman seeking something 'else'; and even later still when time has worn lines in mango fresh flesh still the heart of a child feels the joy in breasts that sag like yesterday's water ballons.

The stories that began with The Safety Pin Cafe and continue now with The Joy Weed Journal are a holographic journey of people, culture and opportunities. These characters were born from my imagination but are I believe, a collective mirror and at the same time a familiar place where other stories -- your stories -- can grow or morph or become personally mythic.

• For one month, the pages of an internet "cafe and cottage" will open to you taste and see myth in the making. 
• We will read and eat the story and fill our bowls with those things of value to you; things you crave and things you know have sustained you over time. 
• You will come and recognize your Guardians your 'aumakua; naming them will give you what is best for you now.
• The myth and the private journal writings of The Joy Weed Journal will engage you in thinking, seeing, and rigorously exploring how a Border Witch -- one who criss-crosses cultures, ages, and places can be a real and approachable companion in your mythic life.
• Above all the process and the activity of myth-making is a verb that leads to respecting yourself.

Here's a class act that is timeless to me. A bit choppy video but the message comes right on through, "Respect Yourself" by the Staples Singers, 1972

THIS WORKSHOP HAS BEEN CANCELLED.

The Workshop "These are mythic times" starts Monday, April 22, 2013
Cost: $45
Interested? email me at mokihanacalizarATgmailDOTcom for details or to pay with a personal check.

CLICK HERE to buy using PayPal, at The Hedge Shop ... my newly opened on-line store.

Thank you so much, hope to see you in the workshop!
Mokihana

Red Hibiscus and Dragon Wings

Red Hibiscus for our windows Kaimuki Dry Goods

"Final project, says Maple Head to her class...write down some things you believe in that don't make sense...but don't worry about coherence and shape and narrative style. Just make notes. Play with words and ideas...Try to use corners of your brains you don't usually visit...Write from the heart." - Brian Doyle Mink River

"It was a day a duck could love. For that matter the week was a duck's paradise. Dressed for the season in my long skirt, paisley wool shawl, and tea cozy hat with the red hibiscus over my left ear, my feet splashed in puddles."- Yvonne Mokihana Calizar The Safety Pin Cafe

I am playing with words and images, using corners of my brains I don't usually visit unless I am dressed in the language of story that wears me like a red hibiscus. Fragile. Lasting but a day that is all it takes to make space for magic. Spring is making promises today. The first magenta of salmon berry coaxes me from hiding. Sun and puffy clouds tell me "seasons are for reasons." The sly wind is back and turns the rain fly into a dragon dulled from so much rain but still ... its wings never forget what flight is.  Between the editing first drafts and re-writes  I lose the melody of the story and tears come because it is the song of story that like wet dragon wings knows what is at the heart. I was in need of reminders of magic that can come if I remember to include all corners in the folding of art.

From corners of my brain so rarely visited, drawings and watercolors wished for their moments of light. Drawn onto squares of white paper with black pen and filled in with water colors folded origami tea cups spill a story of silliness ...

 The tea cozy hat with bright red felt hibiscus over my left ear, and hints as to the color of paisley that would tickle the joy from the kitties.

 The tea cup unfolded reveals the fullness of paisley, a long shirt and hair no longer blue-black ...

while sensible black boots splash in puddles and twirl at the end of city blocks.

I am in need of more reminders of the best of times from my homeland of red hibiscus. I went searching yesterday, on the look-out for new lengths of cloth to soothe me. When I was a girl learning to sew there was a place I, and many other girls, women and grand-mothers would go. Back and forth I went as my life took me on planes to become mother, career traveler-trainer and wife. Away did I go and yet when I did return to Hibiscus Island there was that place where girls, women and grand-mothers still went to find lengths of cloth, notions and patterns and the chatter that comes when preparing to stitch.

The length of fabric I found to satisfy my craving for Hibiscus Island is from Kaimuki Dry Goods' Online Catalog. I wished it was possible, and made a call to the 808 phone number from my 808 cellphone. Connected and chit-chatting the sound of a familiar lilting voice, and conversation as easy as pie has me well on my way to ordering yards of cotton with large hibiscus and tropical company. In time for spring, my sensible black boots will take me to my sewing machine and stitch a story that I could love.

Strange that this should become a bit to offer at Terri Windling's Moveable Feast entitled "Desire for Dragons. It did not start that way, but nonetheless here it is and I am glad. Link to Terri's blog Myth and Moor for the answer to the question ...Faded dragons forget what their wings are for?