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."


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