Names

Between harp song and The Apple Gardener's long-practice with her art, the stump was positioned into the ancient wheel barrel and moved to the heap of trimmings -- evidence of culling. She sought no help from me though I was good at the smaller tasks. The harp was nearly silent, humming like a maiden aunt tending a soup simmering over a low fire. When I first met The Apple Gardener she walked with a stick and a decided limp; I assumed the limp was permanent. Now healed the ankle and knee were mended, "Repaired like all old trees, I'm as good as any of them," The Apple Gardener included herself as one of the trees and took the naming seriously. "A fruit bearer, that's me." That was several months ago now. Near enough to spring we worked in the gardens.

"I am considering the name of the child, the one not sought, yet found because it was looking," I leaned on a shovel as I spoke.

"It will be a male child," The Apple Gardener said, not stopping she pointed to my  shovel. With two shovels cold soil like pastry, we cut the clods into small bits. Her muscles were strong from a lifetime of digging, pruning and hauling the parts of gardens that were in need of amputation. I had heard her describe the destruction of her work with a sad resignation. Acceptance. So when she told me of her knowing, I accepted her statement as truth, and nodded to her reply.

The seasons were early this year, not so much odd as in step with things as they knew far better than most human weather gauges. The circular bed was scattered with perennials The Apple Gardner wished to be left in place. "Leave those where they be." The names of some I once knew, I queried her about and hoped my memory was hearty enough to maintain somewhere inside the bank. "We'll need to cover with leaf mulch, still too early to leave the tender ones without cover." Once the bed was loosened of hard lumps we walked to and fro the pile of wet and rotting leaves from which we made a quilt thick and comfortable.

"The name, Mothan, sits easily as his name," I said when the work was done. My arms tingled from the light workout. Aches after such minimal exertion. How easily I became lazy, preferring mind work over the physical. In contrast my friend delighted in her work, prodding the repositioned stump into the far corner of the garden.

"That is a name that comes with time Pale," she answered. "The creeping plant is different in its native state. Its wildness is potent when it is not sought, yes. A cultivated version will have some recognition of all its power; but not so much. Have you spoken with Raven about the name?"

"No, you are the first to hear it." I could feel my certainty wane, my clinging loosen, and my jaw slacken. This was a good sign; evidence of a softening nature, but then The Apple Gardener was expert at softening nature.

"Help me with this, please." The stump was reluctant to roll into place. The harp must have drifted into sleep, or was simply cooperating as instructed. There was room for me to push one side of the huge old tree with my right boot.

"Into the corner post," the gardener directed. "Lean it up. There's enough life left in her to send shoots by Spring. We'll train them into stretching arms. Beautiful enough to attract many birds."

We smiled. The harp woke. The wind sang.


Continue the story here ...

Mothan

"Yes, the tradition for picking sacred plants was "gun sireadh, gun iarraidh," without searching, without seeking.  In other words, it needs to choose you!"

-The Apple Gardener

My children are mostly grown into themselves now, no longer near-by and confident on their paths they inspire me to be child-like. I feel more sure they are being who they were meant to be when I read their notes and electronic mail that say, "Good for you," upon receipt of my latest adventures. The wounds of loss have healed into scars and bumps that make the contours of the flesh interesting ground; the breakage of bones slowing me down for times, though even bone heals ... eventually.

"I wonder what they will say when they learn of my pregnancy?" The words spill from my lips and out into the damp fog who is eager to carry news. Across the forest and in the orchard just below my friend is bent over a hole. The fog makes it difficult to make out her intent. Too cold for transplanting. Ridding the old stump perhaps. By the time I make my way to her she is ready with an answer and I see she has help lifting the rotted stump too heavy to be moved alone. 

"I knew you were in the woods," she said without lifting her hands from the shovel she used to leverage a large chunk of apple root.  The sound of the harp was muffled but very much present. Too damp to be with The Apple Gardener I knew that for sure. But up the gentle climb to the cottage through the window overlooking the deep porch, the curve of wood and strings were visible.

"The fog is such a gossip!" I said this with mild malignancy. This was not my favorite guise for weather, and The Apple Gardener knew my feelings. One day, all right it passes. One week and I have been know to call weather nasty names. Her snickering was soft but not soft so I could not hear her. 

"Do you really care what your children think about being pregnant with the child of a bird?" she asked. The question came accompanied by a heightened strand of harp song. I didn't answer right away, choosing instead to watch how she moved with the notes to pivot and swivel root and shovel. Watching the dance with admiration and silence the question waited.

Continue the story here ...

Joy Weed

"Give the ones you love wings to fly, 

roots to come back

and reasons to stay."

- The Dalai Lama

The screams pierced the dark. Three of them, so uncommon for me. Eventually I took the knotted cord and measured, first around anapuni and then, anapu'u noting the bulge that was different.

"Definitely growing into yourself," He was beside me. Ordinarily that would comfort me, but not tonight. He spoke without doubt, "You are with child." That old language. A smile with a glint from his golden bird eyes meant to melt my worry. Though no light was cast, I could see him. I was way past the age for conception, but then those years and measurements would apply to a purely human experience. What grew now was more than human and in the world our child would occupy, magic would measure the boundaries.

I sat for several breathes on the edge of my raised bed, feet cold upon the tiles.

"You were without sufficient oxygen," he said. "The windows were shut, you could not breathe." He must have felt me gasping for breath and in the dreams all experiences of suffocation manifest in torture. That I could, and did, scream was a sign of growth. Difficult, but a sign of growing nonetheless.  It was too soon to talk about the dream, the torture, but it was time to be with the weeds, the plants, the prayers.

"I'm going out." I needed the comfort of the firs, the promise of the place-holder red alder.  


"Can I do something for you?" he asked. 

"No, not yet," I stood, opened the door chasing the images of the putrid nightmare beyond me, away long enough to take myself outside. The air was wet but not cold. Warm clouds have changed things in the night. Once inside the curve of the kitchen hut I reached for the lamp and sat down. The green waxy leaves of la'i were cool in my palms. I asked whether I needed to carry the leaves with me, weave a lei, but then remembered: no lei while I am pregnant. The answer was, "No, but speak the words." Caressing the long leaves I began to chant. Softly at first and then more. Girl Cat woke from her nest in the corner, her head erect and green eyes upon me.  

"Yes," I said to her. "I'm in trouble." I continued to chant. She watched, climbed onto my lap, listening. Then purred.

......

This place has come to suit me well. A small band of friends, and suitable isolation for those occasions of oddity many might judge more than peculiar. In town most call me Joy Weed, but a few call me Pale, pronouncing it as if English at first until I laugh and say, "That would be just about right. What with not much sun in Salish, but it's a Hawaiian name ... pah-lay." Four, or more times in a month someone will say, "Sweet name. Funny. Did you change your name when you got to the island? Lots of folks do." I laugh with every one of the queries and tell them all, "That is my real and given name. We are a common breed," I add, and wait to see whether the punch line is lost or found in conversation. Curiosity will often lead people to ask what Pale means. To add a bit of mischief I tell them, "Slipper, pale means slipper." Which it does, but more to the point it means 'covering.' Getting to know people, as with getting to know the meaning of words takes time, if you have patience for it or both. The islanders in this part of the Salish Sea are creative types lending a mostly open-mind to being whatever pleases. The kaona the many meanings come with time if there's room for it.

Native wood fairy families are mostly transparent, but I feel them and catch them from the corner of my eye when I am outdoors. They keep their distance, I leave them gifts and am ever surprised at what they choose to take as their own. The Fairy Lady keeps herself busy at The Safety Pin Cafe in town keen to sniff for those teetering on the borders especially those dressed in sensible boots.

A border witch tends a broad hedge of mixed plantings taking from one experience, a second place, a third option and always leaving room for the weed discovered-- the one not looked for. Tonight's screams were night magic the sort that strips aside the daytime skin.  Pretense rarely makes it through a night determined to have its way. As I finished the chants and felt the space of  anapuni new within I looked for talismans to hold me temporarily. A curve of coral from O'ahu tide pools fit in my palms. I held it rubbing its grainy surface to remind me of my past. Pinned to my thin lavender cotton robe the safety pin for luck ... I rubbed it too. Time slipped. How long ago had it been since I found the cafe?

It was a day only a duck could love. Dressed for the season I wore my long skirt, paisley wool shawl and tea cozy hat. At the very last minute I pinned a bright red felt hibiscus into the hat above my left ear. I liked being reminded of the best of times back home. The red hibiscus did that for me. My feet splashed in puddles. The sensible black leather lace-ups answered the silly duck talk that came from the edges. Twirling as I walked the silliness grew.

"It makes no never-mind to me, " I said to the ducks who waddled in the puddles with me. "I have no oily feathers to shed the rain, but my sensible shoes are always game." Most of the other walkers were tucked tight against the insides of their big black umbrellas. I had left my umbrella at home. From under my red hibiscus I thought I caught the glimmer of blue. Pale and translucent fairy wing blue.

"They don't usually come out in downpours." My nose sniffed, my eyes scanned the pavement. Sometimes you can smell a fairy before seeing one. The wind sly and quick blew sharp as I lifted my nose. I held tight my shawl, tucked instinctively like a turtle and wished I'd remembered my umbrella. The tea cozy hat was now much soaked through with rain. No fairies. But, a large pin about the size of a butterfly dropped from the cherry red awning above me and landed on my right shoe.

A safety pin. My Ma. She was famous for carrying a flashlight, but it was the safety pin, more often two that was her signature. Just in case. Talisman of security hardwired into my bones like knowing how to make something from nothing. How did she make a dollar outta fifteen cents? Common sense! There was that about her. Bags of other people's ironing, sprinkled with water and rolled into pillow cases leaned against the small bedroom door when we were kids. Week in, week out a starched and ironed shirt. Sharp creased down trouser legs. Piece-work. The long-handled mirror, a magnifying glass from Alexander & Baldwin, slipper barely worn but tossed out. She brought them home, made throwaways new to us with no shame. I felt the distance compress. Her voice clear, "There. Here." Fluid.

A waterfall drained itself off the red awning. I side-stepped the cascade, picked up the pin, opened it long enough to run it through the edge of my shawl and secured it. Twinkle lights brightened the windows under the awning. Seated inside a woman smiled from behind blue eyes. She was small, barely rising above the top of the table. Hair that looked the color of taupe bunnies framed a tiny face and skimmed the golden scarf around her neck. She pointed to the sign over the windows. In letters like liquid copper I read The Safety Pin Cafe. Ravens black and shiny as if dipped in wet ink sat on the strings of lights.

"Against the seasonal darkness, the trick is to tickle the light from its hiding places." That was coming from the woman with the pale blue eyes. The voice was sure and clear as chimes. Smiling I realized a fairy was throwing her voice at me. I reached for the crystal door knob and pushed the front door open. The smell of warm cinnamon toast and hot milk filled my nostrils.

The fresh forest air and the protocol ... remembering to ask for help made room for Grace. A small light illuminated in the sleeping room when I returned. "I have never screamed in my dreams," I said. It was another revelation. Raven was preparing to leave, his waistcoat buttons were secured and though his glasses remained on the simple bed table I knew he was readying himself. The cafe re-opens at dawn. The Lady rarely left the establishment, but Raven was a sort of free-agent assigned to dispensing remedies in his fashion. I chuckled at the thought and then heard Raven say, "Those were the screams of a real voice, dear Miel."

"Miel?"

"Yes, m.i.e.l. It's Spanish, and has many meanings. When I call you it means 'sweet, soothing, delicious honey."


 Continue the story here...