Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Was it Illusion or...?

I climbed the Farawy Tree, up through the branches until I reached a land of dreams.

Last night,
through my window
I saw a cat,
a cat wearing a wizard’s hat.

Now this cat
wearing a wizard’s hat
was in the shadow
of an old and weathered fence,

it was there,
of that I’m sure,
a tabby,
white of throat,

but with that hat,
could I have seen
a wizard in disguise,
or could it have been
just a dream?

The hat was tall,
black, and pointed
with heavenly bodies painted on it,
half moons and planets with rings around them.

Or perhaps it was a witch I saw,
a kindly witch,
or was it just a tabby
white of throat?

Could it be the hat I saw
was nothing more
than a shadow
cast by that old and weathered fence,
and the cat … nothing more than illusion?

Vi Jones
©January 31, 2006

Friday, January 27, 2006

Rain on the Plane Trees

copyright Monika Roleff 2006.

Lemurian Abbey

It has taken almost a year, I understand you hearld the light. I got badly lost. It is a wonderful sight to see the lantern. No wonder I am weary and foot sore. My clothes are in tatters, I need rest and a new habit.
Susan Preston
Blogger Xsunlight

Thursday, January 26, 2006

Knowledge Tree - 2

The edges between the Practical Branches we can see and climb, and those we can only sense by becoming more 'adept', is a matter of personal acuity, faith and understanding. Some people can visualize only the courser, solid structure, while others can see tiny twigs and buds yet unborn. Thus you can only speak of what your perception of this 'line' is, and cannot define it for someone else, e.g. what is magickal for you may be science for another. The key is to embrace the process of knowledge transference rather then the substance of the revelation. Once you have seen a cherry tree in full bloom (or a jacaranda!) it is possible to look at a barren tree in winter and imagine the glory yet again to be. No amount of reading or opinions of another can support this 'adeptness'. You may believe (allow another's experience as your own) in Spring, but you will never 'know' it until you have smelled the ecstasy of the blossom (and perhaps been stung by the bee). What you can do, in a Practical sense, is plant more cherry trees so that others have a chance to experience this wonder. Yet you can never make a tree bloom nor fly like a bee -- but you can be 'one with the tree'. Just hug a tree and learn that it remembers.

We all have 'prior' knowledge to some degree -- the ability to 're-member', as opposed to being separate from what has come before (not necessarily time linear). This includes the concepts of 'instinct', 'tribal memory', 'body memory', 'currents', 'reincarnation' and 'possession'. All of these can be found in (but do not limit) the Innate Zone of Knowledge. For the moment visualize the root structure of your tree buried deep in the earth. Nutrients are drawn from this 'Mother' and energy is returned. Since we don't like to think of that last part, our consciousness rejects exploration of this Zone, and incorrectly shrouds it in dark images, symbols of death and, for some, evil. Forget the religious trapping here and focus on the 'process'. If it helps, turn your tree up-side-down so that the pale, hidden roots become vibrant branches into this Zone, one filled with as much potential for self-awareness as the Conceptual one. See that the dormant seeds are no different than the latent buds. All of the product of human endurance is buried there -- all of the mistakes (real and imagined) have decayed -- enemies and friends are the same. It is enough to conceptualize that we can increase our propengick by going 'into the soil' in a spiritual sense, and also expand the entire Human Knowledge envelope in which learning is possible. Knowledge can be transferred from the Innate 'roots' to the Practical as readily as from the Conceptual Zone, and is often confused in search and application. For distinction, persons perceptually aware of the possibilities of the Innate are called 'Assurgent'. In either case, people attempting such a knowledge shift are often said to be doing or exploring 'magick', or being mystical. Consider instead that you are only exploring 'self' within a process of transferring 'imagined' things from believing to knowing. The magick is that this dabbling in both Zones (Proximal) has an influence on others. Everything you can transfer from these Proximal Zones into the practical makes it easier for someone else to 'understand', and also increases the complete envelope of learnable things. This touches on the Ethereal Zone of Knowledge, as well as the balance between Divine and Covenant. However, such Assurgency does not make anything more 'doable' as with Adeptness. Rather, such an advance would make your actions more 'applicable', i.e. of a higher spiritual quality. An increase in Propengics can occur (with attendant increase in magick, miracles, healing, etc.) because you can now carry an increased load of spiritual energy (knowing how) -- not because of acquiring new skills (knowing what). Thus, there is NO equivalent technology to Alchemy here though the concept of 'Fain' comes close.

Now for a special thought -- one I have explored for more than 50 years (instinctually??). The relationship between the Practical Zone and the Proximal ones is a CONSTANT! And you know what it is. It governs not only the growth of physical trees but spiritual ones as well; affecting how we make decisions and interact successfully with others. Someday I will write a book about it. Perhaps I am.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Not so Angry Pixie

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I found the Angry Pixie looking not nearly so angry after having met up with Chameleon

Mr Whatsisname

Well the whiskey worked for a few days, but I soon realised more drastic intervention was needed and Riversleigh was far from town. I had noted a good array of competent cooks at Riversleigh, and a strange ephemeral being who wafted around late at night with a candle...presumably checking to see if we were all tucked in with no possibility of tears before bedtime. However no dentist.

So, swallowing the last of my hip flask (cunningly hidden from my fellow residents) I headed down the track once more to say goodbye to my new friends before heading off. Dame Wash-a-Lot's tub was still where she had abandoned it, with some little blue wrens fossicking nearby.She would have been pleased about that. But there was no sign of the Faraway Tree...just an empty glade. With an old man, albeit clear eyed and sprightly, leaning on a step ladder and clutching a plastic bag.
"Gone again," he said. " Just when I found some lightbulbs" I shared his dismay. However so much out of the ordinary had happened lately that the lightbulbs were not an issue.
"What is your name?" I asked. Rather abruptly in retrospect.
"MrWhatsisname,"he replied obligingly." I fell off a ladder once. Changing lightbulbs" he added as an afterthought. He paused ,perhaps wondering whether it was advisable to be thinking of doing this again.
"So I can't remember my name and that's what they call me. Mr Whatsisname."
It seemed reasonable and again we both contemplated the empty glade.
"It'll be back.I've just got to be patient." He wandered off to the side to do just that. I followed.

He seemed pleased to have company and proceeded to regale me with what seemed like his whole life's story and as he was very old, it was very long. I was contemplating my own and not really listening, when the words "Dame Wash-a-Lot" grabbed my attention and I cursed myself for my wandering thoughts.

"Yes"he continued, unpeturbed," Such a change. Really a nice old thing. Not a bad cook either now she's given up all that washing and putting the pixie in a bad mood throwing suds all over the place. Made it tricky climbing the tree. But she does want the light bulbs changed." He sounded a bit hesitant as if this had the potential to be a problem.
"Never mind, we are going to look after each other until the Land of Ancestors comes to the top of the tree."

He fell silent. I was too. But I knew it was alright to leave this little group for a while. They were self sufficient in their own little community. I was superfluous. And my tooth was shouting its turn for attention.

Reluctantly I closed my door at Riversleigh, leaving a note for Lois to water the lemon tree in my absence. The room still had my name on the door and somehow I knew there would be fresh linen on the bed when I returned.

The Knowledge Tree

The apparent affinity of all here to tree imagery
has lea dme to re-write some essays --
yes, man does not live by poetry
and stories alone.

The following except probably belongs
on the 'Divination' blog or other purgetory
at Sybil's will, and I will move it as directed.

Just a sampling ...

Those who wish to pursue, embrace
of attack these thoughts are encouraged
to do so -- or I can just coninue in segments.



The most ancient construct of Trebusca (the Magick 24), lends itself to defining all contemplation and attempts to organize reason and perception, should you be drawn to such things. A useful visualization is that of a Lantern Cube, of which I have written elsewhere -- and a format for the Trebusca-Duuran Divination. However, the image of a tree can serve as well, though I risk confusion with other percepts of the 'Tree of Life' found in every culture. But, within the forest of enchantment, there are many types of trees -- so become a tree with me.

The problem with such symbolic and allegorical representation is that it traditionally commands a vertically linear restriction, i.e. 'up is good and down is bad', 'or 'branches reach toward the light, while roots plunge into darkness'. Please abandon such 'learned' duality thinking for a bit, for it always leads to hierarchical stratification and attendant judgment, bias, bigotry and dogma. Instead, embrace 'outward reach for divinity', and ,inward search for divinity'. Turn your tree upside down if it helps in visualization (Dig Tree??), and accept that common terms such as 'climb', 'dig, and 'reach' have no direction. All is the same -- all is of creation -- all is now.

There are six 'zones' of knowledge -- sources, realms, vibrations, whatever. Each Zone has four representations; roots, trunk/bark, core and branches. The Zone we are most familiar with is the 'Practical' one, the beautiful one we touch and feel and hug. It is comprised completely of 'what we know to be true' and 'what we believe to be true', and all of the confusion and delusions about these elements in our lives. In either case, such 'knowledge' is limited by what can be repeated, controlled and manifested by many people -- science as another word. There is much more!

The other Zones (best translation) are: Conceptual, Innate, Ethereal, Covenant and Divine. Envision 'Conceptual ' as the area around the branches that we see, yet can observe the influence of its elements (spiritual wind, rain, etc.) We can imagine the attributes of these elements and even test them a bit, for they 'seen doable' and understandable. What most people consider as 'magick' falls in the Zone, but is not all of it. A traditional (possibly instinctive) desire is to take knowledge from this Zone and draw it into the Practical one -- to own it. This is Alchemy, of course -- though described by many other terms such as 'theory'. Everything in this Zone is 'believed', i.e. based on third party relevance. What starts off as a 'conceptualization' becomes science and Practical when everybody can embrace it. It is no longer mysterious or magickal. In actuality the phrase 'to do magick' is a null term -- if you can do it on purpose it is science (Practical) and not magick (Conceptual). Do not despair! By climbing the Branches of your Practical Tree you increase the chances of observing mystery and having it happen about you with increased frequency -- a 'propensity for magick', or 'progengicks' for short. Also recognize that we infuse nutrients from this Zone essential to our intellectual survival (sense of awe, wonder and being), and aspirate into this Zone in the form of dreams and prayers. I would offer that practice in both 'infusion'; and 'aspiration' will increase your ability to transfer knowledge from the Conceptual Zone, and at the same time increase the 'envelope' of both Zones-- the subject for different essay.

(to be continued, as desired)

Monday, January 23, 2006

Lemurian Writing Retreat

Lemurian Writing Retreat

An Angry Pixie.

I looked up the Faraway Tree, where the man with his saucepans had vanished. Presumably in the same direction as the Dame a few days before. Driven as usual by curiosity, I started in the same direction, clambering over well spaced branches, head down and focused on finding secure footholds. I had once seen our old gardener Zac take a tumble, and even once slid down a jacaranda myself, so was now doubly cautious.

Just as I started to puff with the exertion, my hand, reaching for an elusive branch,unexpectedly made contact with something soft and which was suddenly thrashing about to try and release my grip. It was a struggle to maintain my balance, but when I did, there seated on the branch above with feet now dangling askew and arms crossed, was a Pixi. I instinctively knew she was a Pixie because her ears were pointed and her blue shoes were shoes only a Pixie would wear. They had bells on their toes. Which jingled as she vented her displeasure on me. I would find out later that she was known as the Angry Pixie.

"What are you doing in my tree?!" she demanded, hands now uncrossed and on her hips.
" I decide who comes up." she added, leaping to her feet in a brilliant display of agility. As she continued with her diatribe her voice became strident with her indignation at my inattention. However I was too intrigued by both her appearance and presence to take her admonishment seriously. I just realised that she was angry. Very Angry for such a seemingly minor transgression. Suddenly and unexpectedly she burst into tears and was sobbing into a large hanky whose colour matched her pixie shoes.

The tears snatched at my well -honed motherly instincts and soon we were sitting side by side on the branch. After a good cry she blew her nose voloubly in a final farewell to the tears and upset. Instinctively I knew there was a reason for her unhappiness. Slowly, over a welcome cup of tea she produced from a cubby hole in the tree trunk, she started to confide in me. Of her happy Pixie childhood in the trees, the death of her mother and how her beloved father had become infatuated with an elegant and beguiling lady whose pixie shoes and cap always matched, and whose skirts were never askew like hers. Again tears threatened as she relived her abandonment. The alienation that had come her way.

"But surely there are other people up here in the Faraway tree you could be friends with?" I tentatively suggested.
" Perhaps they have come from other lives and places as well".
I could see that she was thinking over what I had said, pondering what Iwas attempting to imply. Hopefully considering that the entire world was not necessarily a legitimate object for her anger.

" For a start", I took a chance and continued, " There is the man with the saucepans. I saw him scramble up here a short while ago"
"Oh, him" she shrugged indifferently. All those damn saucepans. So irritating."
I relayed his story to her. Her eyes softened. " I didn't realise that" she mumured. Thoughtfully.
" And of course Dame Wash-a-Lot" and as I remembered my own stepmother it was my own time to be thoughtful.
"There's a strange one" ventured the pixie." She used to be always scrubbing and throwing the water all over me. Even came one day and insisted on tidying up my house. Told me I was messy." and so saying she smoothed her skirt and the look in her eye told me it was a point of contention.
"Then a few days ago she came flying up the tree, more nimble than usual. No sign of her washtub! She disappeared into her house and there hasn't been the sound of running water since. Just music and a growing pile of wine bottles on the doorstop." She paused to consider the transformation. And I was able to share with the Pixie some of the story behind another person she shared her tree with.

We finished our second cup of tea. Time to go home before someone at Riversleigh wondered where I had disappeared to. Later I was to learn they were all doing disappearances of their own into the branches of the Faraway Tree, into lands where their lives and dreams were emeshed.

The once angry Pixie hugged me goodbye promising to search out the the other Tree inhabitants, wondering how I really knew about the man with the saucepans who like her wasn't sure where his real home had vanished to.

Dream Branches

Branches of Dreams
(we don't have any Green Ants in America)

We may set some goals beyond our reach,
and segment plans as practical steps
to climb beyond limits of others …
and these are called dreams.

Source mused on not being alone,
the joy of sharing idle chatter --
and we were loved into existence …
and this is called a dream

Nurture fantasies beyond reason,
and blame others for their failure,
while marching to a broken drum …
and still call it a dream.

Our body collapses in agony
while the mind churns on in panic --
attempting to sort out discordance …
and this too is called a dream.

But oft-times my spirit remembers,
and my soul finds delightful balance,
and my heart reaches out and on to thee …
yet we do not call this a dream.


Last night as I sweltered in oppressive heat
I rested many hours on that couch in the lounge
I was restless and niggerly
Upstairs the heat was melting the curtains
My dog lay panting at the open front door

I must have slept,I don't remember
I seemed to float or fly or be transcended
To the top of a Faraway Land
I seemed to stumble from a large tree trunk
Into a soft white floor of cloud like carpet

All was white and pink and blue with tinges of grey as well.
A house stood there doors open wide
a mat said "'Welcome come inside"
I walked right in as I could feel the breeze
It seemed to follow me around,it held my hand
it caressed my brow it blew the sleep from my tired eyes

A man walked foward with a face so round ,his shirt had an emblem ...not loud or harsh just the face of a moon
He bade me come in to where it was cool
Commenting on weather he had heard about
" Down There"
I knew what he meant ,I agreed with his aims
To give shelter to those who feel so worn out
To give them a space to breath in fresh air
No charge did he say...Now that's a rare one

So that night and next day I spent in a haven at the top of the tree in that Faraway Land
I looked for the children
Jo,Fanny and what's her name
I didn,t see Mother,
She was most likley at home
cooking scones for their tea as she usually does
Come hail or come shine Mothers always are there
Just when you need them ,never despair.

I shall not wake from this dream
as I feel so relaxed
A visit to earth is not in my plans
I shall stay for awhile and meet others I
know ..from the reading of Enid's book on the
Folks of that Faraway Land....

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 23.1.06

Sunday, January 22, 2006


Hello Everyone,
Thank you for leaving some of your work for me to read. Vi I have just read your Elfin poem.
It is lovely. I often think of friends long gone both young and old. I too know they are close by.
They are part of me and I find them still an inspiration. Always remembered. Susan Preston

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Climbing up to the Land of Dreams

The power of dreams has always been recognized, and used as a source of motivation, or an excuse for inaction -- or a form of divination. This is a loose translation of a saying more than six thousand years old …

dreams drift unto action's reality -- sad
from actions spring the dream again -- joy
to embrace this dance is the highest form of living

the scrolls of Eskiyalı

Take yourself back -- back and within to a simple evening campfire -- a waning of the days toil and fears -- a time to dream. A Shaman speaks, not a religious leader in any modern sense, but one who explored the realms of things not understood. Essential faith in one's spiritual bond with deity was not one -- formalized religions had not yet appeared -- no need. Everyone here knows of this bond -- belief is not required.

So, how does one blend this knowledge with the demands of human survival?

Draw close and listen …


The fire had ebbed to wood core, beyond crackle of attention and sudden flare-blaze of distraction. The shadows cast were softened and provided nurtured hid to others gathered beneath fern and scattered branch. The friends drew close, not for warmth, but to embrace the words.

“This will be our last meal together, the last sharing of simple companionship and unguarded thought. I have either taught you enough or not at all. Each of you will now be the word as I have been for thee.”

The silence spoke of doubt and fear, yet all bound in love and yearning. The did not yet understand – belief yes, but knowledge was not yet embraced. As always, her patience expanded in story and sign.

“Look about – Heash is on everything -- some would say the 'breath of God'. Of the friendly faces well known you sense the presence, her presence -- his presence as you may limit divinity. Seek also the whisper of the pines and the pulsing of the stone – even into the darkness beyond the flames of reason. You are there also, as am I, as all is one and of Source and Creation. To find yourself in this and all, I have taught you how to seek balance -- pray for some, to seek solitude and innocence – to empty yourself of will and pride. And in this you will know – be one with …

Look to the trays before you. See the bread and goblet of wine. Indeed, these are gifts of Heash – the grain, the grapes, the wood. And Source who made these also loved you into existence, and thus you are the same. Simple.

Yet the bread if made by thy own hand, and the grain cultivated and gather by men. The grapes would fall unto the fields to rot and recycle new life if not by the hand of you – and you and unseen brothers. This wine we savor is a gift of man as well, and nurtures life in but slight delay. The tray is crafted by careful hand to be used again and again as proof of both divine gift and humanity.

Of these things you know, and have been taught and remember.

The message I bring is that this blending of mystery and work is incomplete. You must gift this bread and water of life to another as in ancient times – suspending judgment of worthiness or need. As I break off a piece of crust and touch your hand we bring in faith true bonding of divinity and humanity, of gifts and givens of being. For you eat not simple bread but of my body and essence – and of all of you here and have ever been and by your seed.

Take this wine, drink of it and pass it to your brother on your left. He will sip then not only the gift of Heash and work of man’s hand and heart, but also of your love and being. And when I am no longer with you, you shall also drink of me in every offered cup, and every compassioned tear and every gathered drop of rain – and in turn Source will drink of thee.

For all three are the same – the grape the wine and the sharing. But of this you cannot understand or teach – only accept and believe. I say to you, as I eat of your bread and sip your wine; that you need only offer open hands to strangers, and they will understand -- you will come to knowledge beyond believing. You need only give of the bread of your simple faith, and they will understand. Your words may set the table. Your hands may craft the serving tray. But that they may eat of your heart and soul – and drink of thy spirit will you be known – and dine with me in eternity.”


Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Faraway At Midnight

There is a woman who is voiceless from wailing and wasted from weeping and Death visits her from Faraway at Midnight.

Death finds her in her Garden, her long dead garden tending to weeds and thorns and sticker bushes and poisonous plants and as she harvests and picks and adds each deadly plant to her basket woven from human hair Death shudders and hides in the Shadows and is grateful the Woman can’t see him.

All the same she knows Death is there and when she senses it, she reaches into her basket and lifts one of the plants to her lips and pushes it into her mouth. She chews and swallows and screeches into the darkness, “ Where are you? Why isn’t these working…someone tell me why this isn’t working! “

Death would squeeze it’s eyes shut if it had eyes, so instead it raises it’s pale cold hand to it’s empty eye sockets and covers it’s face the best it can. It’s fingers press against it’s mouth and it does this to keep from calling out, from screaming because the Woman who is voiceless from wailing and wasted from weeping is a corpse and a shell and once long ago she murdered a man.

He was the Husband of a Woman who came from a place called Sawajinn, a place that Time and Death and Life avoided at all costs, because a visit there would cost the traveler everything.


The former resident of Sawajinn cursed the woman over her husband’s poisoned body and her curse was simple and horrible.

The Weeping Woman would never die; she would never meet her own Death.

Instead she was cursed to meet her victim’s Death.

His Death comes from Faraway every night at Midnight and watches her from the upper branches of a dead twisted oak tree. Of course his Death can’t take her, it only visits her and then it leaves her at each sunrise.

Before it leaves Death shows her something it carries in its left hand.

It shows her a small bottle of white powder and it holds it up and the Woman sees it. She knows what it is, the little bottle once belonged to her, after all.

She puts her hands out and calls, “ Please, please give it to me, take me with you. I can’t live like this anymore! “

Death can see her in the half light and it can see the maggots and flies tangled in her hair, crawling from the corners of her eyes. It can smell her flesh rotting on her bones and it can hear the skin on her legs and back splitting apart.

I’m not your death. But I’ll visit you, I’ll never stop visiting you.”

“ I can’t” it sighs.

And as the Sunlight works it’s way into the shadows cast by deadly sweet blossoms and fragrant green leaves dripping with deadly venom Death leaves for Faraway and the woman who is voiceless from wailing and wasted from weeping begins her wait for Death to visit at Midnight.

Monday, January 16, 2006

Forest Floor

copyright Monika Roleff 2006.

My Elf in Faded Green

He’s been with me since I was wee,
my Elf in Faded Green.
I’ve not seen him,
but I know he’s here with me
because my Daddy told me so.

He lived so long ago
in that storage bin.
He never showed himself,
but I knew that he was there
because my Daddy told me so.

He’s been with me all these years,
helping me through hard times
and laughing with me through all the good.
How do I know,
because my Daddy told me so.

He’s so much older now, my elf, as I am old.
So many years have passed since I first learned about him,
but he’s been with me every moment,
sitting on my shoulder. I know,
because my Daddy told me so.

Now, as I walk through the forest
leaning on my crooked staff
and looking for that certain tree,
I can imagine what we look like, my elf and me,
to the fairies and the elves who, unseen, are watching us.

His cheeks are rosy, his beard white,
and his hair is long and straggly.
His bright green tunic has faded, as has his pointed hat
but I don’t mind, he’s still my protector. I know,
because my Daddy told me so.

Wait! I do know what he looks like now, and I was right,
His cheeks are rosy, his beard white,
and his hair is long and straggly.
His bright green tunic has faded, as has his pointed hat
How do I know?
Because I took a picture, a Polaroid,
and there, sitting on my shoulder,
with rosy cheeks and all, is my Elf in Faded Green.

My Daddy’s gone now, but he’s smiling down at me,
because he knows that I know,
what he told me so long ago was true.

©January 16, 2006

Hugging the tree


and being
by simply
listening to
three breezes
of evergreens...
One pulse is deep
and draws from earth
and cycled seeds of birth.
One rustles with green breath
and vibrant heart and branching,
reaching out to embrace my soul.
The last, or first perhaps, is way up
and beyond the reach of human ken ...
the whisper of spirit rain on yearning leaf,
to a song,
a praying
I can but

The Land of Dreams

I went to The Land of Dreams to see whom I might meet
There was an image of myself on each deserted street

And the things I push aside whilst walking on this earth
Came hurtling up to greet me, without a trace of mirth

People talking at me and doing things I didn’t like
I tried to make them hear me but my voice box went on strike

With angst I screamed in silence, unable to be heard
I wonder what it feels like to be a caged and flightless bird

So when I ran into Silky we hurriedly took flight
Far away from this hard land, it’s haunting clouds of white

Back to the warmth of our tree, the things of stone and science
Where my footprints retreated heavily into a cone of silence

Today I met a stranger passing through the enchanted wood
He said we’d met before - ‘please remember me’ (if I could)
But I had no waking memory of this visitor’s face
We must have met before, in a haunting, white-clouded place

Sunday, January 15, 2006

What the trees told me....

Way back when the trees starting whispering,
they gave me a message, which I finally captured for the journey.
It is this:
"In the silence of winter,
we dream of summer,
and of magic."

To Follow Wisdom


I climb most slowly -- though intently,
seeking tactile mem'ries of his passing;
each furrow of bark was a choice, I know --
drawn from vibrations from the hugging tree.

I can retrace his silent, tortuous path,
and savor nature's fine cacophony --
a symphony discordant yet sublime
of wind and bird and scolding squirrel.

He knows the way, you see, from experience;
and left a touch of self on gnarled bark
that I might sure follow, learn and wonder
of one who hears with soul and shuttered ears.

And when I meet the 'pot-man' later on,
I can repay the wisdom of the tree --
telling him of the music of his path
with heart and hand -- just because I can.


Saturday, January 14, 2006

The Minstrel

The Minstrel

As I wandered
through the wood
I heard a tune
and I tried to discern
from where it came.

I looked all about
but naught
could I see
I listened to the tree
as it offered advice.

Stop looking to the clouds
and thinking aloud
there is much to be seen
if only you lean
closer to the trees.

I sat down at the
base of the tree
and listened to the song
so sweet and so strong
as it echoed through the wood.

I opened my eyes
it was then that I spied
the minstrel singing
his song
amongst the flowers and leaves.

© Megan Warren 15/01/2006

Julie Belle's Tree

Julie Belle’s Tree

It was a tree
much like any other
in this mysterious forest,
but it wasn’t
just like any other.

The bark was gnarly
and spoke of age,
of wisdom
and all knowing.
I stopped to rest,
sitting on the ground
and leaning against the trunk.
All was quiet,
all too quiet, I thought.

I closed my eyes,
but felt watched.
Now, how could that be,
when I was alone
with not a soul in sight?

Then, a flash of rainbow light
seen through closed eyelids.
I sat up, looked around,
and saw nothing, just a forest
of green with ferns and lichen.
My mind is playing tricks, I thought,
and closed my eyes again.

Now, I was hearing music,
light, happy sounds, and singing,
small voices all in sync,
like a choir sweet and pure,
but from whence it came
I could not tell,
and wondered if I’d lost my mind.

I stood and turned toward the tree
and in its gnarly bark, I saw
what looked to be a tiny door.
A door painted green
with a shiny knocker
and a name plate that read
Julie Belle.
I leaned close and peeked
through the mail slot
and there within,
a choir of little people sang,
led by a tiny beauty
with waist length golden hair
and wings of silk.
Julie Belle no doubt.

I sat down again,
my back against the gnarly bark,
and listened with much content
to such a concert,
the like of which
I’d not heard before.

I fell asleep
and when I woke,
all was quiet.
There was no music and
I could not find the door,
the green door with a shiny knocker
and the name plate that read Julie Belle.
I knew though in my mind
that I was close to magic—
close to that faraway tree,
and that I must look some more
for there’s so much more to see.

Vi Jones
©January 14, 2006


I met a man when I went walking
We got talking man and I.
( Apologies to A.A.Milne)
He looked at me as I prattled on
And in his hand he shook a pot
The lid flew off
Just missed my head
He said " Stand still and read my lips"
I did as he asked with eyes wide and shaking
" I'm deaf"he said,"From years of clanking my wares".

Two kettles for sale
Two pots for your stove
Two frying pans to cook you a meal
Two bob for the lot
Now that's a great deal

I was at one with this man,the seller of pots
I wrote on a card and handed it to him
The story of my old dog at home
Jessie by name and loving by nature
But deaf as can be,no hearing at all
I told him the story of whistling out loud
Of banging on tin pots to call her back home
All this is not working I told the old man
What else can I do to find where she is
I spend all my day just looking for her
She's behind the old shed,or down in a hole
Or under the car or in the front room
I'm exhausted some days I told the old man

He looked at me strangely and said "Quite so"
" Just think of the pleasure when she comes for bone
the look on her face is a joy to be seen"
When she's no longer with you
You'll wish she was there"
Being deaf is a trouble,but it takes not
away the love we have for an animal who cares.

Only a salesman you say to yourself
I think that he's more of a sage to be sure
He knows of the problems that befall man and beast
Yet he still keeps on selling
as he travels the road
He's next port of call is the Faraway Tree
There's a party onthere,some time about 4
I'll get there before then ,and get a few sales
I can't remember her name
She's a Pixie they say,
Makes sandwiches for all,
Oh well it takes all sorts
To make up this world.....
Said he ,as he climbed that big tree

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 15.1.06

Friday, January 13, 2006

Silky's Place

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Clueless at the Faraway Tree

copyright Monika Roleff 2006.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

I met a flying cat today
He told me there are many secrets to be found as we make our way to the faraway tree
I ask him what kind of secrets ,but he just smiled and said
Beware of the purple mice they are mean and tend to bite,
the green ones are friends to those in need. and
the gray ones are tasty to eat for me at least.
Then he smiled and flew away.
the purple cat with wings a strange creature indeed.
full of many secrets and stories to tell
Im sure I will see him again

Lady Moon

lady moon.jpg

Still silent lady

I reach out to you

In the cold night air

Comforted by your presence

At the base of the tree

an excerpt from "The Vale of Shernai" ...
copyright Sakin'el 2005

i found him in a tree --
part of him at any rate and 'him' is but a guess.
he was not 'in the tree' like
kids stealing apples or kisses,
but one with the tree -- sort of --
only his torso was free,
except for one hand of which he had four,
and his lower parts were, well --
still merged of the tree -- naturally.

it seemed a perfect fit,
with no pain or physical rejection,
beyond his wishing to be free, of course --

he asked if i could help a bit,
which perhaps i could,
knowing i probably wouldn't see him
if I were not of the answer,
or a prayer --
perhaps I exist soas to be there,
and did and was.

so, I told him how to free himself,
and in return, since I had not asked
for boon nor pledge nor gift,
he told me a story --
better than this one sure …
the best he had to give.

He told me of
the Vale of Shernai

Climb the Tree to Meet Silky and Whatshisname

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Climb the rope ladder up the Faraway Tree to Silky's place. Whatshisname is sitting on his chair smoking a pipe and Moonface has come to see who is coming. Silky is bound to have some of her famous Pop Biscuits to have with a glass of milk.

Tell us about anyone else you meet on the boughs as you climb into these upper branches. You will have had to pass the Angry Pixie and miss Dame Washalot's sudsy water. Rumour hath it that a new land is approaching and everyone will be invited to come and explore.

Butterfly in Red

copyright Monika Roleff 2006.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Moon Dance


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Dance under the moon if you are brave. le Enchanteur is looking a bit Moonstruck here.

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This seems to fit...

A touch of Megan - a Fitz


There is no one
doesn't like a butterfly;
and the word chrysalis is most enchanting,
as a chime in tune with eternity,
and metamorphosis seems akin
to religious rites most ancient --
but what if flutter of gentle wings,
entwined with angel and fairie myth,
are nothing but a cocoon's way
of making more cocoons?



Look to the moon
As she waxes and wanes
Hers is a constant
State of flux
Let her be your guide
As you embark
On your transformation
Break free
From your silk spun
Cocoon that confines you
Spread your wings
Under the moonlight
Bask in her glow
Embrace your creativity
And complete the

© Megan Warren 11 January 2006

Within the shadow of the moon

If you are oft drawn beyond --
above and out and in surround,
the clutch of man's vain philosophy,
then a question or two may rest your soul.
No never mind your intellect -- give it no mind!
Follow yet your heart matched in pulse with Father Sun.
Better yet …
ask the earth of which you were formed,
beg of the tree that protected your birth,
respond to the song of bird, flower and stone.
For they know …
as do you, my friend -- come out -- join in --
the ether is fine!


Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Casting Back the Shadows


Young Again.

Soft as silk,

The shadows are cast back

revealing light.

copyright Monika Roleff 2006.

Crescent Moon

Fallen tree

Fallen tree
cleaves the air
chasm left
in its wake
empty space
where once
life lived
rubble detritus
all that’s left
clear blue

© Megan Warren 11 January 2006

" THE FARAWAY TREE" by Enid Blyton

It came in the mail on Tuesday
A note from the Port Melbourne Librian
it said.....Ms Daley
"Do you want the MAGIC Faraway Tree
OR the The Folk of the Faraway Tree.
"We don't have one called " The Faraway Tree".

Big decision I thought
So I opted for the The Magic Faraway Tree
The book was old
She apologised ,all the new ones were out
due to school holidays
It was printed in 1984.
It was tattered,torn,worn,handled muchly
Creased pages,pencil scratchings,taped spine where it was torn
Ah a well loved book I thought.
I might just ask her if I can buy it
when I have finished reading it

So I brought it home
and that night in bed (Tues) I started to read The Magic Faraway Tree
I met....Jo,Fanny Bessie ,then cousin Dick from London,Mother and Father
( I didn,t realise Jo was a boy until page 8)

I loved the story of Jo digging the potatoes for Father
and Bessie and Fanny helping Mother with the chores
And being able to take their dinner and their tea
and visit their friends in the Faraway Tree

Such freedon I thought to myself as I took stock of todays children
and their lack of freedon in cities
I loved the bit too of the children having to do their chores
For Mother and Father before they went and had their fun
Like ''We are all part of this family,we all pull our weight"

Another memory popped into my head as I wrote this
I remember well my Father Bert saying to my Brother John, and I
Help out with the dishes,make you bed etc etc
Don,t leave your clothes on the floor
"Your Mother is not a servant,she is your Mother".

Ah,such was life in the 30's..40's and 50's for me.
Tonight I will read more of the Magic Faraway Tree
But now I am off to see a film with my Friend Angela
"Narnia" The Lion,the Witch,and the Wardrobe
I often wonder why is it
That I have these adult friends who just love
Magic and Mayhem...Just lucky I guess.

Lois (Muse of the Sea) 11.1.06


Woman at the Crossroads

Woman at the Crossroads

Follow the way
the wind blows
like a feather
weightlessly buoyant.

Follow your heart
its desire
pulling heartstrings
like a lovers
gentle caress.

Follow your creativity
it may take you
like a journeying

Follow the path
at the crossroads
that which you must
only you
will know.

© Megan Warren 11 January 2006

Stranger at the Crossroads

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No one is sure who she is but, despite the wind's concern, she is coming.

To the Moon...

I fly to the bow
Of the crescent moon
And swing in the cradle
Of her arms.

Silver grey and
Crooked crone,
She rocks me to
The music of the stars.

She opens a box
And holds out her hand
And I ponder - What
shall be locked away?

What holds me back?
What binds my wings?
Fear - fear of the unknown,
Fear of losing my way.

So I take it out,
Small shrivelled thing,
Quivering in my hand -
So small, all my fear.

She takes it from me
And drops it in the box.
It cowers in a corner
And just disappears.

``I will keep this safe,"
As she closed the box.
Then she tipped me out
And I fell like a stone.

But I laughed as I flew
Back down to earth,
For my wings were spread
And my fear was gone.

Monday, January 09, 2006

Birdhouse Raven Applique

As I travelled through the Enchanted Wood,
A raven joined me as my travelling companion.
He showed me where the bird houses were.
The home of various birds native to the wood.

Other Moonlight

NO MOON – a mystic’s creed

There is no moon adrift, but sharp memories bob easy.
No shadows of past life to stretch and beyond slowly.
No miss-happened image of shifting size and faded form.
Each baby step draws only from earth and internal flame.

One heel forward, one toe back; dance in tune with chaos.
Hands point and spin, and try to clap, but miss a beat or two;
for there is no sure joining of what was and what will be,
save knowledge that love is born in light and mirror passion.

I still hear of ‘in love’ and ‘by love’ and ‘love is forever’,
but my journey now takes me beyond in, to ever out.
Nay, know that thus whispered be found ‘forever is love’;
not a claim of abused, tossed words, but bold divine bond.

So, I laugh. – hear chuckle again; bound in unleashed mirth.
I choose to stand by love made simple through extended hand.
I now know that distress and pain cannot mold Goddess’ smile,
but that misery and doubt is always a lash of choice.

Love is not told nor used to abuse or control lost souls.
It must be lived and molded and proclaimed by humble act.
Come to me in certain love’s embrace without agenda
for power or revenge or spite or guilt or even shame.

When you say to me, “I love you,” then show by action
that you love yourself, and the Spring’s flower and Fall’s decline,
for I am in love with love itself and the everlight
that casts no shadow on eternal self of me and …

So, please sing ‘is you is, or is you ain’t by love defined.’
Chant or pray or dance or cast a spell for understanding.
For we cannot change that love is why there is love beheld.
We can only choose to return to simple innocence.

Offering to the Moon - Collaged Playing Card

Night Sky

I was inspired by Gail's Rub a Dub Dub, so I thought I would give something similar a go.

Night Sky

It was the darkest night
Standing in the middle
Of nowhere
Not a trace of light

Twinkle, twinkle, little star
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high
Like a diamond in the sky
Twinkle, twinkle, little star
How I wonder what you are!

As I looked up
Towards the sky
A twinkling
Caught my eye

When the blazing sun is gone
When he nothing shines upon
Then you show your little light
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night
Twinkle, twinkle, little star
How I wonder what you are!

There above me
In the sky
A canopy of diamonds
In the sky

Then the traveler in the dark
Thanks you for your tiny spark
He could not see which way to go.
If you did not twinkle so
Twinkle, twinkle, little star
How I wonder what you are!

I turned on the spot
Looked all around
In awe of what I had found
A display of nature’s uncompromised beauty
The stars in the night sky

Twinkle, twinkle, little star
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high
Like a diamond in the sky
Twinkle, twinkle, little star
How I wonder what you are!

© Megan Warren

Sunday, January 08, 2006


I send this wish to the Crescent Moon,
to remember what I already know,
and never to forget it.
copyright Monika Roleff 2006.

Rub a Dub Dub

``What’s a washing tub?” One of my grandchildren asked, when I was making my miniature caravan.
The question made me smile, for the old fashioned galvanised washing tub hasn’t been seen for many years. I showed her the miniature tub I had painted to look like tin and the tiny scrubbing board that went with it. I told her how my mother and grandmothers had used these to do their laundry, and pointed out that the washing tub was just big enough for a small child.
``You had a bath in it?” She asked, wide eyed.

Rub a dub dub
In the big tin tub
That hung on the wall with a rope.
Rub a dub dub
Having a scrub
With Wright’s coal tar soap.

The soap had a strong antiseptic smell that permeated everything. There is no cleaner smell in the world. I was soaped all over with the yellow suds, from my hair to my toes, then was rinsed off with jugs of water – the bathwater at first, then clean rinse water.

Rub a dub tub
In the big tin tub
In Grandmother’s Kitchen.
Rub a dub dub
Having a scrub
The flames in the fireplace twitching.

When I stayed with my English Grandmother, I was bathed in her dim scullery down the stairs. The only lights were from a tiny gas flame high on the walls and the flickering flames of the scullery fire. It was warm and cosy down there with no draughts to give me a chill. Grandmother had a big fluffy towel to wrap me in at the end and I dried off in front of the fire.

Rub a dub dub
In the big tin tub
Like a child in Dame Washalot’s hands.
Rub a dub dub
Having a scrub
Time falls away like hourglass sands.

Dame Washalot’s strong, competent hands remind me of my Grandmother. She hums as she rubs the soap into me with a coarse piece of flannel, works the suds into my hair with determined fingers, then rinses and rinses until she is satisfied that I am pink and new. How many years has she washed away? Too many to count. As she wraps the big warm towel around me I realise she has grown taller – or maybe I have grown smaller. I look into the washtub, filled with the cares of the years, the learned responses and expectations I have carried with me for so long. One by one, like bubbles, they pop and disappear.

Rub a dub dub
In the big tin tub
All my troubles are washed right away.
Rub a dub dub
I’ve had my scrub
Now I’m ready to go out and play.

Old Woman Who Never Dies

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Sioux Indians called the moon 'The Old Woman Who Never Dies' while the Iroquois called her 'The Eternal One'. All people's on earth have a name for the moon who Phultarch said "having the light which makes moist and pregnant, is promotive of the generation of living beings and the fructification of plants.'

The White Cresent Goddess is here, at the Faraway Tree to do more than throw light on us and make our creativity moist and pregnant. She has come to take everything that is wasted, such as misspent time, broken vows, fruitless tears, unfulfilled desires and intentions and the like.

In Ariosto's Orlando and Furioso Astolpho found on his visit to the moon that bribes were hung on gold and silver hooks, princes's favours were kept in bellows, wasted talent was kept in vases.

Meet with the Cresent Moon and make an offering that she can take back to the moon and store in a box with your name on it. You might, for example, offer a broken vow so that it is removed from you and you can move on and be more productive.


There is something epiphanal
'bout following a mountain steam
up to its roots and source and birth.
The fact that she and I wore only shorts
may have added some magic,
at least for me --
a statement of the isolation and freedom,
and because the trees told us to.

Miles from nowhere is somewhere too,
and most sublime 'gainst raging heat
to find a sheltered nook
'neath the brow of a shale cliff --
the stream but a hand across
but bragging of its power
with a swirl caught patch of sand.

The gnarled tree clutched the rocks,
or perhaps held them together,
with glistening fingers
dallying in the cooling flow --
an invitation for one to share
the divine drop in temperature there
in the haven of perpetual shade.

There was a mist-fall, you see,
created by a rusty pipe set there
in a crook of bark grown round,
that diverted a rivulet from a dam above --
just enough to shower down to me
as gift from earth and willing hand
of a traveler never seen but known.

In a natural hollow of twisted roots
was found a brownish lump of soap,
that I might have missed,
but she grasped instinctively,
that we might frolic shamelessly --
the soap but an excuse for exploration
and basking in the smiling sun.

Saturday, January 07, 2006



As I approached the tree
She was waiting for me
Scrubbing brush in hand
A tub of suds
At her feet.
I’ve been waiting
She said
I knew you’d come
To the Tree.
First you must wash
Away all the debris
A baptism of sorts
To wash away
Your demons and doubts
To purge your thoughts
Cleanse your mind
And your soul
As you emerge
From your cathartic
Ready to begin

© Megan Warren 8/01/06

Friday, January 06, 2006

Welcome to Faraway-The Beginning

Hidden from the safe roads and safe streets and quiet parks and sun kissed forests and the sunlight is my hometown...its called Faraway Tree and no one comes here on purpose.

Maybe it's because everything here is covered with dust...the people, houses buildings trees and plants. I guess it could be because no one speaks loudly here, no one is awake here. Faraway is the place where nightmares live and once you've been to Faraway you can never really belong anywhere else again.

So what do we do here, Faraway from the rest of the world?

When the sunsets we like to go out to the Middle of the Desert where the Wells of Angra Lei are and we drop stones down into them and listen to them fall and fall and fall and sometimes we swear you can hear them hit the bottom...but of course that's not true.

These Wells have never held water and they are out here, away from anything alive for a reason.

The air that comes up from the Wells of Angra are so poisonous one whiff could melt your heart in your chest and your poor eyes would run like rivers down your cheeks. Nothing has ever come up from those wells except for Death...and why should that surprise you?

It has to come from somewhere...Death you see comes from Faraway.

My Mother use to visit the Wells during the daylight, she would lean over the sides and whisper things down into the Wells and sometimes she would laugh and sometimes she would curse but she did it by daylight.

She was also very, very insane.

She was you see, from Faraway and nothing here is familiar or safe. Nothing Faraway is what you think it is.

Living in Faraway will change you.

Being from Faraway will damn you.

Like it did to my Mother…and what it did to me.

And what it will do to you, if you’re not careful of Faraway.

Surprise, surprise!

Wandering through the woods, I am looking to see whether I could espy these devilish little elves everyone keeps talking about. I am scanning the trees and not altogether looking where I am going, when suddenly I am grabbed by the shoulders. I turn around only to see Dame Washalot there with her big scrubbing brush.
"I think you need a good scrub before you go wandering off. Otherwise you will never see all the delights awaiting you."
Underneath her rough treatment of me, I could see that she had my interests at heart.
So into the tub I popped. Surprisingly, the water was warm. She looked at me for sometime to see what needed to be scrubbed away.
"Look at those shoulders, they have been carrying too much responsibilty for so long, they are so tense and taut and bowed down"
With her brush, she scrubbed and scrubbed. The tub began to fill with suds. Up, up they bubbled over the edge of the tub. They flowed over the side and down the path all the way to the stream at the bottom of the woods.
Then to my amazement, I could see the little elves picking up my worries in the suds and throwing them away. They were having such a lovely time, chattering away.
I wonder what they were saying?

The Dame.

Saturday morning. Always with its own pleasures even when one is long past the Monday to Friday treadmill.And especially from the tinted perspective in the oasis that is Riversleigh.

The lorrikeets were busy having their ritual chirrup and some neighbours were loading a variety of beach gear into the back of an already laden Volvo.Optimistically, because a Kentish drizzle was starting to filter up the valley.

I glanced behind. The lemon tree was doing well. I had planted it out after a week in the greenhouse had seen it shed the old yellow leaves and sprout new baby greens, unfurling towards the sky. Optimistically. As I had known it would. A magic place this Riversleigh, its fingers spreading metaphorically and physically into my every day life. I was moving in a spot beneath the heavens where there was a thin veil, an interface....

Remembering Sybil's injunction to seek out Dame Wash-a-Lot, I took my coffee and wandered off down the lane which was in sight of my room. After a while I saw a figure under an old Japanese Maple whose leaves had been singed by the recent heat. She, for she had on a voluminous skirt, had her back to me but I could see she was busy scrubbing over a big tub, suds flying. She seemed oblivious to the incongruity of her laundry location and the possibility that anyone might see her.

I called to her. The arms stopped their frantic movements and slowly her head turned.

" Marian!" I stuttered, startled to see my step-mother. It was barely a week since I had kissed her goodbye after Christmas Lunch, feeling instinctively that it was perhaps for the last time. That her frail figure would soon slip from us. It was in fact only a few days since she had done so.

"Marian", I repeated, and hugged her. At a loss for words.

She turned back to resume the scrubbing, a ceaseless movement in the desire for cleanliness that had come to increasingly dominate her life in her last years. An obsession which had gripped her and dictated an increasing isolation. I gripped her thin arms in desperation to turn her back to face me.
"You don't have to do this any more" I said.
The tension softened, the haunted look relaxed gradually and there was a glimmer of the old smile we had not seen for a long time.
" I'll do it for you."

For a long time there was silence but finally she turned resolutely away from her labours and kissed me goodbye.
"Tell your Dad I am alright, if you will do it for me" and she started to wander back into the woods waving goodbye. Her gait had lost its stiffness and was becoming girlish and free again.
"But darling," I heard the her call as she vanished, " Tell him not to mess up the kitchen!"

She was gone. Chores finished at last, freed from a place where they were never finished. The fears which drove them were evaporating as readily as the mist with the strengthening sun. She was departing to goodness knows where, a land up some Far Away Tree. Just an interface away.

There was no need to spell out the message her appearance held for me. Or for the family who could farewell her in style but also with understanding,tomorrow, from the Abbey Church where she had married my father only ten years before.

Ritual Cleanse

The Dame looks me dead in the eye
With a symbolic scrub brush in hand
Do what you will

And cold
She washes me like a child
I huddle in the tub
Pondering my fate

I stand
She pours a bucket
Of spring water laced with herbs
And spices

Cleansed like never before
I focus on the new year

I cast out
My lazy mind
I cast out
I cast out

I am open to
New beginnings
I am open to
New ideas
I am open to

Sage incense wafts around me
A clean white mantle covers me

Hot peppermint tea
Warms me and soothes me

I lift my face to the sun
And breathe in

I thank the Dame of the Waters
And follow the path into the woods.

Wash Away!

The timing is perfect for this new venture of scrubbing and sloughing away what is no longer useful. With the new year beckoning, and all, it seems frivolous to dwell on the old crusty stuff. Well, they are old, aren't they, my thoughts that seem to want attention and airtime. Some of my thoughts have been so old of late they have surprised me, popping up out of nowhere, waiting to see if I still want them. Well, wash and scrub away, what is useless to me, I say. Some things are worth letting go, and that which is left can remain to become new and full of promise. Often at this time of year I discard and sort, and the same thing can apply to old ways of thinking. So let the soap dissolve old muddy ways and petty annoyances, let the salt water clear the debris away, let the perfume clear the mind of clutter and take it to another place. I watched a film tonight that was so full of ancient ways and damaging "cause and effect" that it forced my decision further to let go of old things, wishing the world would too. Seen on film, they are vivid and appalling, and may be burned into the memory as being totally useless customs and old superstitions and behaviours. Free then, I am, to respond and think differently, not marred by useless convention.
copyright Monika Roleff 2006.

Dame and I

Well, the sight of me in an old wash tub,
may be more of mirth than novelty --
feet sticking out from being fair tall,
and well earned paunch above the suds and all;
and my Em wished longish hair (no grey at 61)
may need a second rinse or three
from a tin can with holes punched
like my grandma did for me.

I'm not much for sittin' in a tub,
but will dance in a waterfall,
or just let the spring rain wash away
that which would cling to me --
yet I welcome the Dame's ready hand,
and scalding pot from the open fire,
for no matter what one's will and craft,
there is that spot you just can't reach.

but I will come as clean as I can …


The salt water that I carry within my veins cries out for return to the seas of its birth. My humanity, of course, seeks to climb the mountain peak and bask in the flux of desert heat and snowy cold. In journey, my spirit is caressed by the breeze and flower and animal cry. I need not yearn or choose a path for Adam's dominion over physical bond. It is mine by right, though I am not sure where my authority and accountabilities lie. Perhaps it is enough to enjoy, and by careful action to insure that others might do the same. But still, there is my internal fire that burns in harmonized death of millions of cells to protect this saline bond with earth and sea. My spirit strives for surrendered call to follow with Ancient's footsteps in repeated climb to hill and cross. Yet, each drop of sweat from my labored assent drops to Mother Earth in another real claim.

My path is short compared with that single drop which will filter through fractured stone to which a billion years is but a minute of growth. Yet, each layer of sand or crystalline spread is not a barrier, but a chance for that drop to blend with history and carry forth a message to the dripping spring or tumbling stream. The whole world washes clean of the dust from my feet. Oh, but that the dust that gathers in the corners of my mind be so purely bathed away! In a basin I can wash another's feet and feel my spirit renewed as well. I can plunge into a mountain pool and retrieve man's discarded effluvia and articles of disrespect. I pray that I can learn to recognize the useful, supporting themes from the bombard of trivial dreams and claim on intellect.

We speak of "peace of mind," but it should be concern for "piece of mind." The ability or gift to consciously select a chunk of useless thought or habit and toss it away without regret is not yet mine. The layers of my history's gathered pebbles are not sufficient to filter pure the distractions of uncharitable thoughts or my apparent need to classify as good and bad. So, what to do?


hope the Dame has a backbrush!


Dame Washalot Scrub

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Rub a dub three travellers in a tub
Dame Washalot ready to scrub

Dame Washalot is waiting at the bottom of the Faraway Tree, sleeved rolled up, bucket of water from the Blind Springs, ready to scrub away inhibitions and preconceived notions. Are you ready?

Describe your first meeting with the Dame of the Faraway Tree.