Sunday, July 30, 2017

Lusty best (more Slipp'n In)

She didn't expect the sentiment from the man bent over the shovel. But what surprised them both, Nene was unfettered, was the history in lyrics recited over yellow blossoms.

We got together at our lusty best
No more Wisconsin
Good bye Smuggler's nest
Hawaii called us
Her words, her ways
Salted us, seasoned us

We got together at our lusty best
Lahaina moon light
Upcountry dancing
All the rest
Them Valley Isle memories
Forever will caress

Love won't be tethered
Though egos scold
Reigned in like
Captives of
Pirates too crusty, too old
Love won't be controlled

Now. Time did rust us
And friends mistrusted
So lucky that
We stored sweet
Maui moments
Deep within our chests

Now time did rust us
And some mistrusted
So lucky that
We stored sweet
Maui moments
Deep ... within ... our chests

Lusty Best (c) Yvonne Mokihana Calizar, 2017

Friday, July 21, 2017

More Slippin' In ... "The apron"

"We cross borders without regard, ignorant or arrogant of the protocol native to the transitional spaces that take us from this place to that place. Traditions remembered and practiced would maintain and pass along the right things to do, at the right time, and in the right frame of mind. Have we all become wanderers with passports un-stamped with the memory of teachings from the Ancestors and Nature? There are rituals to remember and common magic to induce respect and reverence for the beings and places that share this planet." -"Introduction" from the original medicine of The Safety Pin Cafe 

When she was gathering the plants for medicine, they calmed her. There was a stretch of here to there, not much, but just enough to hinge her to the otherness. She always started by asking permission to gather, and took no more than half of what was available. And gave thanks when she was done.

On these days The Woman wore the green apron stitched especially for The Safety Pin Cafe activity; she'd been initiated long ago on one of those days only ducks love. Now a careful reader and one with memory for other stories would question that. Didn't her story take her to other places? Oh, yes, her story did take her to other places. It is the apron stitched with the likeness of a faceless woman that has passed from hand to hand, woman to woman. The Woman, in this story, had been handed the apron.

The New Moon was close, soon the dark night sky, and the extreme low tides would be here. Fresh slates a long smooth sandy chalkboard would present itself. But now, it was a gathering moon.

"What are Mullein flower's medicine?" Nene did not know the Mullein, but was familiar with the phrase, "invasive species" -- weeds.  A name many humans consider the Common Mullein, or Verbascum. The Woman considered herself a novice to plant medicine, the common medicine, people's medicine; weed medicine. What she learned she gleaned with the YouTube Herbalist and practiced.

"I'm gathering the flowers to make an oil for earache. I get earaches often," She answered. The smell of squeezed onion juice and olive oil wafted from both ears. The current remedy for the congestion was like living with a good saute. In six weeks she'd have something else to try if the aches came again.

"These beauties are only here every one year, and only for a few weeks if we're lucky. I missed them completely last year; I was still early in my learning curve." She loved that she was still able to learn new things. Nene followed the little woman as she walked slowly to the stands of tall furry leafed weeds that grew on the prairie front. At the last of the gathering spot, The Woman stopped to chat to a man bent over his shovel through the wire fence.

"What're you up to today?" The man asked.

"Gathering mullein flowers for earaches."

The man muttered a muted reply. The Woman kept picking just a couple more bright yellow blossoms.

"We're going to miss you folks," he said. "We're all going to miss you."

Oh this was not the conversation The Woman was prepared for. But then, this was the place, and this was one of the humans who had made a place of affection and safety for many seasons. Nene knew the man could not see her, she was invisible to everyone except The Woman. The yama bells on her tail feathers remained silent. There was no threat here. The Woman poked the last of her gatherings into the silky smooth wetness of the olive oil, and relaxed before she said ...

The start of this story is here.

Wednesday, July 19, 2017

Slipping in, continued

The goose was well-connected in the ways between extinction and the prevailings. Nene came to know the deepest of instincts. She heard the soul's softest voice and learned echolacution; she could bounce the softest voice against itself. For company. Soothing the biggest and the tiny beings fearful of that commonest dread: "No one will remember, no one will miss me when I die" the large rare Hawaiian goose found her calling.

When the Woman first met Nene she, the Woman, was masked against an untrustable world. A large rare goose with hinged feet and tail caused a circuit to splinter.

"Your hinges made it all slip," the Woman sputtered. Tears big and sloppy joined the flow from her nose.

"The bells?" Nene was curious to know why her mountain bells had no effect.

"Oh, Yama bells and I go  back a long, long before-fear ago. Yes, I knew I could love you. But still, it was the hinges that told me you'd been broken. I could trust you."

Slipping in

"I miss the myth."
"Where did it go?"
"Somewhere other than where I am."
"Slip through a crack, ride a current. See that star, watch those clouds. So much to do when and if you are allowing the one dimensional human form to be in charge. With so little time, really, a human lifetime is a blink. Why do you get stuck to the one and the only mode?"
"Let's blame capitalism."

Nene was used to the spells the Woman too often stepped into when the smells and the opinions swamped her boat. It was such a small boat of a body and the work of Hinging was just beginning to take hold. Nene was patient, and remembered the times just before her own extinction when every smell and opinion weighed heavy.

To be a goose, a mythic goose, was a privileged state of being. Being a hinge goose was extra special and for that Nene could not have been more grateful. She was part of a grand and flowing story that was endless and it was practical; she was a Virgo goose with lots of Taurus as a bonus.

As you might guess this story is a slip into myth because the one dimensional-ness of humanity was beginning to cinch the joy out of the Woman. It's one of those illusions --the cinch belt, that needs a good slapping around, and a nice hot bowl of freshly cooked oatmeal with lots of butter and maple syrup to set things right again. The great thing about The Safety Pin Cafe is that I have the key to the back door, and the folks here? They are always so glad to see a new medicine story in the making. Some faceless or masked being is forever showing up in line with a duck, or raven, or goose.

Never know exactly where the story will go but it makes no never mind. Myth has a very wide pair of hips. For birthing.