A NEW SEGMENT from The Journal: Living in a crack

Note to the reader: If you have not yet read the original entries of The Joy Weed Journal, this segment will put you 'in a crack' before you're ready. Perhaps you're facile and comfortable with hopping in and out of cracks join me then. Or. Stop here and follow the original story that starts over here.


Some years later ...

The six saimin bowls were stacked as they always are in an upright pillar one bowl nestled into the other. With time the nicks had grown but I never replaced them. My company, and family, never minded. As a living philosophy I kept to Ma's original spell, "People don't come to visit my things; they come to visit me." I think it a spell because in her lifetime those sorts of people were the only ones to visit her. My thick tea mug was emptied of the strong sweet chai, morning was bright with a spring sun and only the hum of my computer broke the quiet. I'd been up for hours stitching the small pouches that would hold a bit of magic and a few words. There was a birthday party later today but something needed to be stirred together for dinner first.

Soup? Rising to consider what I could fill the bowls with I ran my small hands along the side of the pillar remembering most of the occasions which left the nicks or chips. Lifting the top bowl a thin but growing crack etched from the lip to about midway. "Can you live from a cracked bowl?"I thought aloud. The image of Max, godfather, rose from the bowl like the genie of Aladdin. He said, "I know a story that might answer that. Care to hear it?" I smiled at the question then laughed at how stories come to a storyteller. "Let me fill my tea cup, Uncle. And you?" Max nodded. He was always ready for tea with a story. "I would love to hear that story."

A funny thing happens when you step through a door you once shut with determination, intending to leave it shut for all time. Perhaps it's particularly funny if you are blessed with the genes of drama which the Gods and Goddesses chuckle at and say things my mother once told me, "Wait until you have children of your own. Then. Then, you'll know what I mean." The thing about the way the Ancestors work is they don't tell me off so much as put me into the in between places where I experience all options at the same time. Like one of the nicks or cracks in my saimin bowls some of the soup seeped into the fissures. But the soup didn't taste any different because there were imperfections. Or did it? Six saimin bowls were plenty, I remember the Costas twelve children. Dinner was from the pot. You had a spoon, hunger and the laughter. Bowls or plates? They never used 'em.

Ever live from a crack in a bowl?  One option: create magic, common magic. Rub on a memory from the past ... a safety pin shows up. Grow a few more gray hairs, and feel the humanity of aching bones that creak under the pressure of history and your ancestors will show you a way through time. The cracks like Pele's gaping holes are making room for something yet to be. I was mixing metaphors and time with no regard for logic. "Pele is messing with all those faulty foundations ... mix those metaphors Pale. It's a necessary activity!" Max and I both knew the slow moving planet was better named "Pele" as our Island ancestors reckoned the goddess of fire and earth-making was truly offering--no demanding-- everyone alive get back to basics.

I sipped my tea and waited for Max to take a good slurp of his. He was not so much a sipper as a man of gusto. I was now nearly 80, and still the kahuna showed up as if I were his young god-child. The birthday was less than four hours away. Company and family would show up soon. What story would come to fill the cracked bowl I wondered.


This is the story Max had for me. It wanders, may be familiar to at least one of you, it is the great arc. Time travels.

When you have read that story link here for another journal entry.

Making broth, simmering a story, serving the muse

"Entering the world of ancestral memory requires a certain mindset. Take time to enjoy and understand each phrase or line before going on. Remember, this gift took many lifetimes to wrap. Don't be in a hurry to unwrap it and become frustrated in doing so. The meaning and force of the ancestral knowledge will unfold precept upon precept, and each has a code to inspire you on to the next level." - from the Preface of Ka Honua Ola by Pualani Kanaka'ole Kanahele

"Bone broth.  The name alone sounds medieval, something that modern folks simply don’t eat. But more and more, people are turning to stock made with the bones of chicken, beef, fish, etc, for both superior culinary flavors and old-fashioned healing properties..." - Bone broth

Simmering the parts of a soup for broth

Serving the muse

Just over a year ago I began gathering the story that is The Joy Weed Journal. There were parts of the story already alive and well: the characters and the flavor of a mythic journey had begun in The Safety Pin Cafe. The medicine and magic that connected old memories and timeless practices were at work and partnering with the Muse. There was no stopping the process, but at the same time, there was no rushing it. Like making an old-fashioned bone broth for a nourishing soup the story would need to be simmered to render its goodness. 

A month ago this blog-story was posted and opened as 'a showing' designed to be read by a small audience of friends who willingly signed on to participate in giving me feedback and comments about the sound, feel and effect of the medicine story as it is so far. The audience participation has been a wonderful process both satisfying me as I had hoped, and challenging me with individual feedback I could never have anticipated. (Comments from readers in our audience can be read at the end of each of the segments of The Joy Weed Journal.) In addition to these comments, private email conversations discussing and clarifying characters, metaphors and the flow of the mythic tale add to the quality of the story's value as a medicine story.

I learn to be open to participation, practice listening without judgment and give thanks for lessons that come from the give-and-take involved in art. Like learning and practicing to make a tasty and hearty soup the simmering of a story is work over time; and patience is a necessary element. Rushing to unwrap the gift of a good soup/story? The results are sometimes quickly forgettable. 

Today this rendering of words is intended to give thanks to the friends and family who are my audience, the readers and participants who have thus far added to the value of the story. Writing can be a lonely process sometimes, done alone, the art for me is honestly rarely a lonely one. The story, character and my sense for the adventure are wonderful company. Yet at this point the audience is giving me another rich layer of experiences as a teller of story and I relish in it!

The New Moon in Pisces, this Saturday new audience members will come to read and add to the quality of the tale. The New Moon is a perfect time to make intentions for the coming moon cycle. I bless the company and the cycle Mahina -- the moon -- offers me as a woman writer living and aging on this ka honua ola this place of life. We make broth, adjust the flavor as necessary and then give thanks for the process thus far. Life is like that. Story is like that. 

If you've come to read, I hope you enjoy the magic. If you've come as part of the audience thank you for your valuable participation.

Bon Appetit.

Myth & medicine in the backbone of The Year of the Horse

“The value of myth is that it takes all the things you know and restores to them the rich significance which has been hidden by the veil of familiarity.”-C.S. Lewis

Happy New Lunar Year, the Year of the Wooden Horse. Like the infamous wooden horse of Troy filled with unexpected outcomes, the year of the horse is one that is fueled by wild and quickly changing events. Riding Living in the back of this new year there is space for
a bit more myth and medicine. 

The story that began with The Safety Pin Cafe continues. This time the journal kept by Pale Wawae, also known as Joy Weed, opens more deeply the inner world of the evolving sensitive. The two stories The Safety Pin Cafe and The Joy Weed Journal are a pair. You might like to (re) read The Safety Pin Cafe before you begin The Joy Weed Journal, read both stories and savor the connections, metaphors and places where the myth can tickle at lines in your/our journey evoking memories, similarities, queries. Between reading the two stories, do pause and reflect on the characters and the effect of the cafe upon you. Maybe a journal of your own --to make notes, sketch images that might come, intuitive renderings--would be fun. Allow some time and space to feed your soul and your imagination.

Thanks so much for coming to read the Joy Weed Journal. If you journal you know that these pages can include snippets of an unfolding discovery; emotions and entanglements might flood a page; or sometimes a long and detailed dialogue from a memorable day; and other times remembering an event long passed will find its way in your journal. The journal you're about to read includes all of these sorts of recordings. They are the private writings of an aging border witch about to discover more than she expected.


If you have come as part of Our Audience CLICK here.
If you have come 'to read only' CLICK here to start reading.

Mahalo,
Mokihana

P.S. Already, the horse has given me insight into her true nature. Notice the subtle word change?

Half-blood

 WAIT. Don't spoil it for yourself by reading this post until you've read the story from the beginning.
The sidebar on the left will take you through the doses of story ... enjoy it for the magic!
xo Mokihana

 Hapa "of mixed blood"
-Hawaiian Dictionary, Pukui and Ebert

They were not so different from their friends. Minoaka was true to her name, a dimpled laugh punctuated her face and the hearts of everyone who met her. From the start our daughter wore her destiny on her face along with the long and curved nose of her father. Covered with soft dawny feathers of silver until she was steady on her two human feet this child was the patient and steady twin. Comfortable within the nest she waited to speak. Skeena was given the name to remind the twins of their Tsimshian lineage.* The boy was as fluid and quick as the swift and long flowing river for which he was named. "He will need someone who is agile with arrows, and nimble with his fingers." Raven saw into his son's future as clearly as he saw through the limbs of an acre of cedar. "When I have taught him all I know, he will want more."

I knew my mate looked at destiny with eyes different than mine, I asked, "Is it magic he will need?"

"Yes, but it is not so much that he will need magic. He wears those genes already." Those golden eyes caressed me with knowing. Raven saw into things and was facile with adaptation. "There are people, mortals that like you who criss-cross the borders and make sense of the many ways to be in human skin."

"Apprenticeship?" I questioned, knowing that was one way to put it. Raven and I home-schooled the twins during the first dozen years. It was easier to manage the nightly transformation from skin to feathers. Languages of bird and kanaka came naturally; family visits and neighbors' kept the windows and hinges to our doors in constant motion.  Stories and music, harvest times and planting seasons; play-filled and mischief-making all of these common remedies filled the bellies of our children. This fall approaching was a special time, I could sniff it even as the summer was not yet done with the squash fattening on the vines.

"I've seen a pair of brothers particularly good at juggling magic.Watching them season in season out, they feel a good match."

"Are they far from us? Will he need to leave us soon?" I was not ready to live without Skeena.

"Not far, but yes soon Skeena will leave us for awhile. You will like the brothers I have seen. That I promise." He cupped my round face with his silver-tipped wings. "They are menders and meddlers," he added.

"My favorite sort of magicians," I said. My tears rolled onto his vest and hid in his waistcoat pocket for safe keeping.

There's a new entry to the journal. Read it here. But, if you have come to read and be part of Our Audience, these New Segments are just starting to uncover things to come. I would love to hear what the original entries (ending here) have been like for you. Thanks so much for your participation!

*(The Tsimshian (/ˈsɪmʃiən/; Sm'algyax: Ts’msyan) are an indigenous people of the Pacific Northwest Coast. Tsimshian translates to Inside the Skeena River.^[1] Their communities are in British Columbia and Alaska, around Terrace and Prince Rupert and the southernmost corner of Alaska on Annette Island. There are approximately 10,000 Tsimshian. Their culture is matrilineal with a societal structure based on a clan system, properly referred to as a moiety. Early anthropologists and linguistics grouped Gitxsan and Nisga'a as Tsimshian because of linguistic affinities. Under this terminology they were referred to as Coast Tsimshian, even though some communities were not coastal. The three groups identify as separate nations. There are many other ways to spell the name, such as Tsimpshean, Tsimshean, Tsimpshian, and others, but this article will use the spelling "Tsimshian".)

Parenting

Raven chicks usually hatch and are raised within the nest for six weeks. Our chicks were far from usual. Once hatched their silver-hair lineage wore itself in a streak from beak top to tail feathers like the chemtrails in a normally blue sky. Switch that imagery! "Chemtrails are nothing to joke about, and to describe your children as wearing their lineage like toxic smoke... well, just think again, come up with something else." It was Fairy Lady peering over my shoulder as I write. That's the thing about being Border Witch there are limits to the way we use imagination and explanation. The Fairy wasn't having any of that kind of recipe. On the other hand, the larger picture and one that sometimes  tampers with what is good or evil has a voice like this: "You, and he, have without doubt tampered with the nature of usual. So, if the patterns of feather work appear like the things in the sky where they will spend half their lives perhaps that imagery will work. Like a Trojan Horse!" That voice would be the one I assign to Max.

Raven was unashamed to express his feelings when the streaks of silver threaded through the two children. "We will need to call for 'awa from your home islands. These are uncommon necessities even for me." That was a lot coming from my mate who was not long on human words. The ceremonial drink 'awa shared to clarify and relax humans would work with Raven when he took on human form. In his bird-form, his spirit soared beyond the complexities. Having half-spirit children challenged him. Loyalty to family runs deep in Raven clan. I would see that repeatedly in our lifetimes together. As new parents, any new parents that quality counts as commitment.

The silver bird was speaking across time to the essence of what he knew is Max. The two men understood their roles. I felt Max's reply in my fingertips. Tingling as sparks from a newly lit flame It was important for me to prepare the chant of asking, and call on the sources that would provide 'awa for this occasion.

I ka 'awa (in the drink) 2/9/2014

... this segment is being added after the first audience's reading. A suggestion was made, and with that suggestion the storyteller took it into the dreams. The 'Ole Moons came and neap tides happen during those cycles. No deep highs or lows, the tide did not bulge. But, there was something more to add once the moon absorbed a little more light. This is what came.

Raven's request for 'awa seemed fitting to me. Traditionally 'awa was kane: male. A male ritual involving male preparation and plants who are the embodiment of male. The Silver-haired bird needed to ask a favor of the Gods. He knew the protocol that crosses time and the culture of place. It was Max he called, but Max is not an akua, not a god. Max is however a very specific portal to the Gods who could answer the bird's request. With Max I might be softened of my reluctance to partake.

My kuleana, my soul's path-life of responsibility, had never included experience with 'awa. I remembered one night long, long ago when 'awa was being shared. My most trusted ancestor, a cousin who shared my life and my legacy was drinking the 'awa. She offered, but did not insist. Fear was still too thick an emotion in me and my knowledge of 'awa ill-informed. Still wound with whirls of 'shoulds' and 'don'ts'  I stayed clear. Perhaps fear can be a shawl, a pale, that one wears because somethings are not yet "to be" owned/experienced/eaten. I know there is a long road to understanding the meaning of names. Raven's request for Mauliola (good health and long life, or the state of well-being) put us, new parents, in the portal and more was to be revealed.

Now, I kept my distance from the drink though my most beloved prepared the ceremony. At his side, I said my prayers asking for what I needed to be shown. Max appeared, stood on my other side. From his tiny gourd that dangled across his chest, that same container from which he washed his hands as my midwife, Max pulled the stopper. Max's prayer over the 'awa was precise. He addressed the gods, including Hi'iaka, goddess of first growth. I noticed. He knew I would notice. Hi'iaka would is embodied in the first ohi'a, the tree that grows not from a dispersed seed. Hi'iaka who grows from primal root. that goddess. The specifics of 'awa were laid out seamlessly: variety, condition, location and reference to place, purification, petition or request, release of the kapu and the gods. A final closing. There was no holding back, no more excuses, it was time to drink. The tiny gourd contained salt water, the necessary step of purification needed for me (a female) to drink 'awa. Releasing any ill-intent or spirit of malevolence the 'awa was ready. Max, Raven and I drank.

In the drink was calm.
In the 'awa all attachment to one outcome released.
In the drink the feather and flesh we are equal.
In the 'awa the present was in focus.
In the drink the all connected.

I ka 'awa mai ka no'eau 
In the drink he knew.
In the drink I knew.

What was in the drink for Raven was something he would share over time.

"No rush to unwrap the bundle so long hidden. Savor the gift," it was a female voice. Hi'iaka. A small red blossom popped open behind my left ear. 

Resource Note: This segment, though not exclusively so, is very much influenced by the work of Pualani Kanaka'ole Kanahele's, Ka Honua Ola. I acknowledge her translation of traditional practices and makawalu (unfurl) from her strong shoulders of wisdom, with much aloha I mahalo her. This segment of The Joy Weed Journal about 'awa reflects 'elieli kau mai ... dig deep and make it meaningful. This medicine story weaves that message like a strong and flexible nest.
 

Continue reading here ...

Brooding

In the end I settled into brooding the two eggs myself. The twenty days and nights were an incredible time.

The kihei of soft warm kapa that appeared in the small room above The Safety Pin Cafe those years past, covered me and the growing young creating soft folds beneath and around us I cradled the eggs against me. The kihei enveloped each egg, separating them only enough to be a membrane to keep them from premature cracks. Raven served us hot and cool teas, cinnamon toast and daily doses of healthy mounds of shredded meats and bowls of warm greens. Maha and The Fairy Lady supplied savory soups seasoned with herbs and tidbits of magic from the gardens and the Cafe. An ingenious contraption made with tackle and pulleys and a harness-like seat allowed me to climb in and out for stretches and toilet time. I was never away for more than a few minutes in truth it was more than enough time. I missed the contact of the smooth shells and my body craved the contact perhaps more than my soul. Pela. Paha.

The nest was large by any bird's standard and with little effort Raven perched on the edge his prominent beak well into the hallow. In his bird form the sounds that are as myriad and diverse as sun, wind and darkness filled time and space. The memory of the growing babies snapped at his uttering swallowing them whole to be used when they too have beaks that pronounce and preen. Imitating the creatures that share his world Raven was at once the donkey annoyed and braying when there was no attention or her favorite grains and Gravensteins tart and sassy; then the caws that are almost indistinguishable yet different from Crow. Clicking and clacking in language that I need interpretation, my silver-haired partner tell his children the stories of long ago; and the ones that will make for daily laughter. There are no birds who have as much fun as do Ravens. I sleep to his storytelling and drift to the border towns of dream.

Max and the Grandmothers come most nights. Sometimes it is Tutu who oils my hair and untangles the wet hair of my sacred baths, 'au'au kai. In the salty ocean I douse myself and swim in those turquoise oceans. 

"There will be times of bird and then there will be times of being human," the grandmother, Papa, came to me for the first time during the nights of brooding. Her large and substantial body was covered with a soft kapa the color of the last light of day. No introduction seemed necessary, she was simply there to tell me what I needed.

"So long in coming, these answers," Papa is my grandmother's mother a woman I call 'aumakua, guardian, a person goddess. I laughed in my sleep to consider what effort it took to uncover the stories of my genealogy. We are such secret-keepers. Her big hands working at my hair, I felt her stop occasionally, to squeeze my head massaging my scalp, relaxing tensions I denied.

"Your children will learn the language of birds and the movements of wind. Like breathing they will move between the worlds and have little resistance to their histories. It is a gift, this wedding between the 'Alala and you, the protected weed girl. We have kept you in the dark so you could blossom later." Her laughter was deep and unrestrained. "Late bloomers, like you, Pale, age in reverse. Which is good because these children will demand it of you!" There was a great seriousness in that last statement. It was the night of 'Ole Pau. What she was saying would have long term reverberations. I got that.

In the morning, my hair still wet with salt water and the oil of coconut, I felt the early signs of the cracks in the shells. Ready or not, here they come.


Continue reading here ... 

Jealousy

I would be lying to say I never get jealous. "You two know each other?" I was repeating myself, an old habit used to cover up feeling confused or ill at ease. Thinking about Max helped me muster the courage to stay with the moment. Vulnerable but willing to test the limits of my fear. 

Raven answered, "Nance is Raven Clan. Her basketry is much respected and sought out at berry-picking time ..." Raven laughed at the small joke. Nance the Basket Weaver was a master weaver and teacher with ties to around the world. When we first met she was struggling to keep her head above water. Now, galleries bid for her work and her portfolio is thicker than sheep needing shearing. 

Raven continued. He never took his eyes off me."We met two years ago when my sisters gave her the name 'Nance of the Kelp' and welcomed her into our tribe at potlatch. My sisters gather with Nance's baskets when the berries come ripe." Raven beamed when he spoke of his twin sisters. Older by ten years they were more mother than sisters to the silver-haired bird man. Together the wizened pair of women raised Raven in a most eclectic world of magic, a world I was barely tapped into after two years. There was a legacy of traditions and transitions to appreciate. Walking into The Safety Pin Cafe that winter day. Border crossing. Now it seemed my initiation was moving to a new level.

"Oh," I said too brightly. I was still trying to convince my cautious heart to turn the juice down.

Raven felt the vibe and lifted a eyebrow at me. In his human shape this animal nature was no less keen. He took my hands, "Trust me, Miel. There is nothing to fear." Nance and Maha were right there. It's not as if they weren't part of my emotional dither. Get a grip, Border Witch. This is a person Max sought out, and arranged to be here. I had no reason nor experience with being let down by the big kahuna. Maybe it was the postpartum blitz of hormones turning on a too easily tapped habit. Old habit wears a deeply trod trail. I felt a chill run the back of my neck. Choose again. Okay.


Continue reading here ...