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.
 

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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.


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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.


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Weaving

We wove small apple twigs pruned from Maha's orchard in and out of the cedar bark skeleton.The gardener was not random in her selection of pruned branches. "Some of those apple buds will open while you sit," Maha was smiling as she worked." That ought to be a sweet surprise some morning Spring. We have plenty to wind around the whole nest at least twice." Like her beautifully tended gardens I would appreciate the art to this construction.

The Basket Weaver brought lengths of kelp--her trademark material-- with tubes, knobs and hold fasts still clinging to stones the size of small potatoes. Laughing her high-pitched giggle her nimble fingers twisted kelp into pockets. I thought of advent calendars I've always loved but haven't had in my life for years and imagined what could be tucked into the kelp for discovery once the babies had hatched. The hold fasts anchored on the inside on the nest in intervals. Fitting for a nest build above the ground.

Thin red alder branches are my favorite gatherings from the woods around my cottage. I have bundles of these long fingers that dry on the trunks as the limbs above reach for sun and life. Stored in empty tins or wrapped with ribbon and tied about the tipis we used to discourage eagles from hunting my hens and ducks, they are everywhere. Dozens of alder branches added to the nest for my eggs leaving soft tips poking out in random swatches. Finally, lengths of grape wines pruned off a week ago filled nicely into a strong wrap near the edge of the nest.

It was nearly dark before we finished layering and weaving apple twigs, alder sticks, kelp and grape vines into the giant nest. I heard his wings before I saw him as is usually the case. A Raven  in flight is an awesome sight and the displacement of wind with those wings is something to behold. The window beside the top of the bunk bed had been left open, Raven flew through with a bundle wrapped and secured with you guessed it, a safety pin.

"What timing, and you come bearing gifts," I was happy to see him and excited to introduce Raven to my old friend. Raven left the bundle on the bunk along with his feathered silver winged self. Transforming from bird to man he climbed the short ladder. We embraced. He kissed me and called me, "Miele. How are you?"

I stroked my belly and walked slowly to the couch where Max's bowler held the two silver eggs. "Amazed would say it all Silver-one." We sat on either side of the hat and took a moment to recognize this time. "We have a brood. Sure to keep us busy for at least ... the foreseeable future." Now that we were together the enormity of the journey threatened to overwhelm me. 

Instead I asked,"What have you in that bundle."

Raven replied, "Soft down and things to line the nest. Feathers. Scraps of wool. Pieces of this. Pieces of that." Raven climbed the short ladder to the bunk and returned with his treasure. Unwrapping the pin, he pulled at the downy contents until all of it heaped into a glorious muddle. His joy was contagious and that was a good thing.

Maha and The Basket Weaver watched us over the tops of steaming mugs of tea. Maha, known to many as The Gypsy Woman is Raven's old friend. When she is not tending her gardens or playing her harp Maha has a regular place at her round table at The Safety Pin Cafe. My Silver-haired Raven and she have a long and interesting history together. Rather than speak Maha walked to the harp that had been strangely silent in her case. I had forgotten about it until I saw the worn leather case. "Battered from trips into and through many dark forests," is how Maha often describes the weathered condition.

Raven looked up and nodded to Maha as she opened the case. And to The Basket Weaver, who I was about to introduce he said, "Nance of the Kelp. I should have know it was you Max would call."

"You know each other?" I was surprised and a little jealous of the familiar way Raven looked at the beautiful weaver. She is an old friend, but still ...

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When less is more

My naps: more than mildly invaded upon. Recollections and visitations from my past piled themselves into a dense line-up. Ma and her cooking, old friends with their oddities unveiled, careers that ended persist in the dreamworld. My history challenges me to yet another dual of priorities: now or then? There are things I'm good at: I care for people with precision if not obsession; my apple pie is legendary and like my mother before me I can make a dollar out of fifteen cents. Well, that's no exactly it; money hasn't been my magic. But what I can do is turn any place I'm at, into a place of comfort and home. That's my special brand of magic though some would just say I'm good at decorating. To get good at anything including magic, you have to practice. I have been in many places and practiced my brand of magic everywhere I've been: remodeled the nest of origin until we couldn't take it anymore; then there was the shared condo in town where we rented the Master Bedroom, turned it into an amazing studio looking out over Paradise while the young stoner, over-medicated nurse, and working girl shared a refrigerator with me. Border magic ...my unique version of it includes seeing the weed as vital. I can make something from nothing;use weeds or discards to fashion beauty. Planted into my name was the essential capacity to remain childlike in my vision. Innocent by choice. Thing is, what I have trouble with is how to weed a garden of history when it's more space that's necessary, not more weeds.

Is there room for old attitudes and wet blankets of regret masquerading as nostalgia when there are eggs to hatch, and a present to nurture? Max had come with his long view of life showing how his third set of teeth were erupting in his pink-brown gums. If a leopard does not change his spots Max's third set of teeth? Perhaps this: even Kahuna grow.


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