Lemurian Landscapes

2003-04-28T18:50:00.000+10:00

Thought I might just share a couple of pieces of writing I did, instead of doing assignments, as per usual. I tend to write some rather, well, depressing pieces. I love the passionate, desperate and almost violently powerful imagery, I find it rather cathartic. And if writing about how frustrating life is doesn't work, then I'll put it to music and sing it. And I wonder why I never get any actual work done....

Fear of The Nothing

The silence is more than I can bear,
Drifting, cut lose from time and space,
Drifting, ungrounded and sinking into nothing
Swallowed up by Oblivion

There is pounding, pounding inside my head,
My body shudders, wracked by the cold,
Within and without, wracked by the cold,
I am no longer in control

What recourse do I have against this unseen foe?
Oblivion beckons, what can I do,
Oblivion beckons, it digs it's hooks into me
I am powerless

Oblivion claims me it's prisoner,
I am trapped, screaming a silent scream
I am no more yet I am still, screaming a silent scream
My screams fill the void

I am no more,
Lost in The Nothing, I cease to exist
Lost in The Nothing, there is no self
The Void is everything

Toni O'Connor.

This second one is a little bit about the struggle of going from child, or should I say 'Teenager-hood', to adulthood. It can be so frustrating simply having to be accountable for oneself.

Harsh Light of Day

Ripping, clawing, grasping
I crawl from my butterfly cocoon
Into the harsh light of day, I crawl
Naked and burning

I long for the shelter of what was before
I want everything to go back to the way it was
Yet into the harsh light of day, I crawl
Naked and burning

Climbing so high up this endless ladder,
Then I fall, wishing I never started to climb at all
Yet up the ladder and into the harsh light of day, I crawl
Naked and burning

I wander through a barren land, unsure of where I'm going
Wishing I didn't have to face this journey
Yet into the wilderness and the harsh light of day, I crawl
Naked and burning

Swimming across an infinite sea, so deep my feet can't reach the bottom
Wishing my goal were so much closer,
Yet across this sea I still swim, and into the harsh light of day, I crawl
Naked and burning

I stumble blindly through a pitch-black tunnel, grazing my skin as I fall,
Wishing I'd never entered this place, wishing I didn't have to get up again,
Yet through this lightless tunnel and into the harsh light of day, I crawl
Naked and burning

Must I force my way out,
force my way through?
climb the endless ladder,
see the journey through?
Must I swim the boundless ocean, and face the darkness too?
There's a knife in my heart and I'm lying here bleeding,
Feel like I'm being dragged through life kicking and screaming
For just one second, I wish that the world would stop turning
Yet into the harsh light of day, I will crawl
Naked and burning.

Toni O'Connor.

2003-04-28T18:45:00.000+10:00

Cockatoos Invade Lemuria

Just before the sun came up, I opened the curtains and there was the city, sihouetted against a stunning red sky with the sun poised to show itself at any second. Aah! Fabulous! what a start to the day.

And then I saw them - two big sulphur-crested cockatoos, having their breakast in my flower boxes on the balcony.
One was delving into the oregano and thyme, and the other had it's beak full of marigolds. The marigold-muncher was facing me through the window and looked quite absurd with its crest sticking up and a shocked expression on its face.

Caught red-handed! Or red-clawed. And the poor marigolds were quivering, half-mangled, the planter box almost emptied, whole plants snapped off and their petals scattered over the tiles and far below on the path.

Now, I'm all for the concept of sharing, but those marigolds were superb - in a spectrum of warm colours from yellow through to deep gold, orange, crimson and burgundy. What I really loved was the way you could look over the marigolds to a swathe of gold-toned autumn leaves on the plane trees lining our street.

Beyond these two bands of colour was the sunrise, if I was up early enough, as well as sunset, which stretches across the sweep of sky from the west to the east and is reflected in the windows of the city buildings. Layer upon layer of glorious colour as far as the eye could see.

So, the foreground of my autumn layers is a mangled mess! Grrr! Before I sent the pesky birds packing, I must admit I had to admire them for a few seconds. They are stunning to look at, with their startling white feathers and that crazy yellow hairdo.

They're so destructive - I know people who live in the Royal National Park, south of Sydney, who have had their wooden verandah rails ruined by cockatoos, whole flocks of them chomping away every morning.

Mind you, another of my autumn layer has gone now - the fresh winds of the past week have blown most of the leaves off the plane trees. Oh well, it is winter after all. At least there's still the sky colours - the wind and the cockatoos can't destroy those!

2003-04-28T18:39:00.000+10:00

The sign said, “Welcome, come on in.” So I did. I walked through the main gate into Lemuria. Shocking. You can do it just like that. An invitation is extended and you respond. I had paced in front of the gate for hours, peeking through the cracks, jumping up and down to see over the top. I tapped lightly on the frame months ago but ran away in case someone answered. And once I even slipped a note under the bottom. It was on red paper with a gold stripe on the side. Do you remember? Well that being said I had never considered lifting the latch and walking in. But today, or was it yesterday or the day before I did it. The gate opened smoothly and creaked in a most pleasant manner.

Because my eyes were downcast and I was observing my shoes with great concentration my first sense of Lemuria was the fragrance. The air was redolent. Redolent I say. It was pungent and spicy and sweet and tangy and stimulating and soothing all at once. It smelled like home and mystery at the same time. I took breath deep from my toes to my head and looked up. Glorious. It was warm with the kind of breeze that dances upon your skin.

I reached down and took off my sandals leaving them by the gate. And I began walking and getting to know this new wonder. I turned to the left because of the little sign that had a tiny blue arrow upon it that said, “Fun ahead.”

In a few minutes I reached a most unusual place. There was a garden with huge patches of mint, rosemary, basil and lemon verbena. There was another sign, except this one was large and direct. “Take a chance. Roll around in the garden. Enjoy!” I was beginning to appreciate all these signs! I did exactly as requested. It was a bit difficult at first, so extravagant and free. I walked into the mint, than sat in it, and then I lay in it. Then I rolled. Back and forth, face down then up and then down with arms spread wide I was a mint angel. The smell was in my nostrils, in my mouth, it was under my eyelids. It was remarkable. I sat up as tears slipped down my face. I truly thought I would burst with wonder.

Deep restorative breaths shook me with their strength. I got up and returned slowly to the gate. There was a card there with my name on it. It said, “You are right where you are suppose to be. Return soon. Your fellow, Lemurians”. I picked up my sandals and slipped quietly out. I will remember how to lift the latch and return to Lemuria.
by Debra Fox

2003-04-26T17:35:00.000+10:00

Delaying Death

My heart is heavy as I travel across my meditating desert today. There is a companion with me and I can not shake the sorrow.

THE LAST MILES

She
walked slowly
across the barren land,
rough woven cape and hood
her only protection
against the blazing sun:
step after step after step.

Her feet burned
in the thin leather sandals,
strapped loosely on her feet,
her only protection
between burning sand
and jagged stones:
step after step after step.

The limp, lifeless bundle
in her arms
weighed heavily
on her weakening body
causing her journey
to become more laborious
with every step;
on and on and on.

She knew-
somewhere-
she must lay her bundle down
and rest,
But not now-
not yet-
Just one more
step after step after step.
Jane Tilton

Last Miles Repose

They eyed her
walking slowly
through barren land.

So sad, so all alone
in the hot sand.

They walked along
her path
so gently worn.

Helped her carry
her heavy bundle
there to mourn.

Softly,
oh so softly
they all cried.

They all stood
so gently
by her side.

They wept
and grieved
for love lost
to their friend.

Then held her near
Her gentle heart
to mend.

© 2002 By Susan L. Anderson

I was moved by both the message and the way it was delivered. All I can think to add is work through the sorrow, it is the only way through, and it is THE only way to lessen the burden. It is incongruous when you think about it, and not all that appealing, because given a choice, us human beings would prefer not to be burdened by sorrow. And yet, it is that which truly makes us more compassionate, stronger, resiliant, "human" beings. Accept the burden, and then you can truly "lay it down"
Anonymous

Women

We bear
burdens
inequity
injustice
babies

We share, a collective past of
exposed infants screaming on cold stone hill sides
bound feet
bound breasts
burnings
an unstoppable, indestructible, mutual strength

Woman of grace
Who bears the honored name of Crone
A name I now thirst to learn
to fill my bones with
to wreath my hair with
to celebrate, exalt and revel
to learn one day to
deserve

Woman of honor
in roughly woven cape and hood
I do not know your burden
I cannot offer to help you carry
I cannot offer you shade or
even a place to rest

But as my sisters before me
throughout antiquity
I will not let you bear it alone

See the footsteps in the sand
I will walk beside you

Edwina Peterson Cross
(Winnie)

2003-04-23T13:20:00.000+10:00

Nasturtiums
tough little plants
with leaves to nibble
flowers to decorate my salad

Flowers
found from north of north
to south of south
reminders
of my mother's garden
brave enough
to grow in careless colour
here
in mine. Fran

2003-04-23T13:17:00.000+10:00

On My Way To Ithaca Fair

Finding my way to Ithaca fair
Winding my way to settle there
On whispers of wind
And rays of sun
Through billowing clouds of mist I run
To quench my thirst
To sate my soul
Oh but the mystery my travels behold
Time is meaningless
It doesn't exist
So dancing along in a fairy mist
Is what I do
Is what I love
To travel the lands so richly blessed
With mountains and lakes and streams caressed
With sunkissed oceans and meadows fair
And fragrant flowers everywhere
I drink of them all
Inhale them divine
These mystical lands I know are mine

© 6/9/02 By Susan L. Anderson

How could I forget my true destination? I am thoroughly enjoying traveling my path to Ithaca though and choose not to go in haste lest I miss even the most minute detail of my exciting journey.

It is an arduous journey but one filled with many rewards. I had heard of the Laistrygonians, and the Kyklopes as well as the Angry Poseidon but thus far I have enjoyed my travels so much that they have remained in the most remote confines of my mind, serving both my spirit and my body well. I pray to the gods daily to see me safely through my exciting journey.

Indeed my purchases thus far have been few but of the finest quality. I've happened upon the finest red silk, laced with fine gold threads of the gods, woven into the most intricate designs....those of which I have never seen before. I found them on my journey through a Phoenician trading station. At another station the most sensuous of oils infused my head! It was so powerful it almost seemed to make me drunk with it's beautiful scent. It was the scent of the finest, most delicate tearose that I have ever had the pleasure of smelling.

I long to move on and on through this wonderful land, basking in its beauty, breathing in it, tasting it, feeling it, seeing it drinking it into my very soul. I can't seem to get enough of it!

My journey through Egypt has been exhausting at times but the splendor and the joys that I have experienced more than make up for the arduous ones. I've only just begun and will move ahead on the whisper of the wind, in the warmth of the sun, on billowing clouds that quench my thirst with their fine mists as I drink in the finest of all this land has to offer, both in tangible objects and in knowledge. My thirst is endless.

I am one with the land and at peace with the gods as they see me through my journey. If it lasts for many years to come, it will continue to move me safely and I will know that my destination of Ithaca will remain my focus for it has always been my predestination. It is quenching a thirst that I've had for years....nay a lifetime...and it is both wise and generous.
Susan Anderson

2002-11-08T13:58:00.000+10:00

Alone In The Wood - A Writing Exercise for Lemurians

It was almost summer in the heart of the wood; and soon as I scrambled through the hedge, I found myself in a dim green forest atmosphere under eaves of virgin foliage. In places where the wood had itself for a background and the trees were massed together thickly, the colour became intensified and almost gem-like: a perfect fire of green, that seemed none the less green for a few specks of autumn gold...There was a great hush over the wood; and the vague rumours that went among the tree-tops, and the occasional rustling of big birds or hares among the undergrowth, had in them a note of almost treacherous stealthiness, that put imagination on its guard and made me walk warily on the russet carpet of last year's leaves. The spirit of the place seemed to be all attention; the wood listened as I went, and held its breath to number my footfalls.
Robert Louis Stevenson, from 'An Autumn Effect' Essays of Travel, 1905

Go into the Lemurian Wood alone, amid the sprays of delicate foligae, the colonnade of slim, straight tree-stems. Sit amid the circle of trees at the end of the gravel pathway . Listen to the vague rumours amid the tree-tops and join the gossip of these elders. Write letting the spirit of this place enter your page.

Some Responses

All alone am I amongst these tall, silent trees, whose canopies sigh softly, swishing from side to side as a breeze riffles through their summer-scented leaves, crisp, like starched linens rustling over my head.

I walk along the dirt track, crunching on scented leaves and pine-needles. My feet stumble over tree-roots, looking left then right, eyes straining for the presence of another creature.

It's too quiet, and I'm uneasily aware of being watched by scores of hidden eyes, for I don't believe for one minute I am the only living thing in this forest. A sharp rustle as something unseen scurries away unnerves me. The animal life hides itself in the undergrowth as I pass, equally watchful.

Sunlight glimmers on silvered ferns, shimmers on stones slick with water, bouncing and bubbling on its way to becoming one with the spirit of the waterfall. The muffled thunder of it penetrates the forest long before I catch a glimpse of the flying spray through the greenery.

Negative ions are here in abundance. I feel a surge of energy, a wild elation well up inside me. A huge volume of water roars white and foaming over the sheer drop and thunders to the pool below, swirling as if in confusion before finding its path again. It cascades over the slippery-smooth pebbles and rushes onwards through the dim coolness of the forest. Foliage and water-spirits dance in its healing spray, rejuvenated and refreshed.

The deafening noise obliterates all other sound. Within its comforting roar I let rip a cleansing rebel yell. The torrent carries it over the precipice and bears it downstream to be pummelled on rocks then sprayed into the air, finally dispersing it on the mossy banks.

Running down the bumpy trail through light and shade, dappled, following the insistent water-chant rolling, singing, smoothing the stones; wading through the rapids with sodden, squelching shoes; in a clearing I see another figure. A man, standing in the shadows, watching me, motionless.
Jenny Aarts
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Woods, always a place of mystery
Trees of different shapes and sizes
The light varies so much
Bright to dark to soft to piercing
Sounds of streams of wind in the leaves
Calls of birds to each other
That I try to join in, but my calls are human
Is there no one else here?
A fern frond brushes my leg and makes me jump
I thought it was a spider
And there I see one but high up
In his glistening web for the rain fell this morning
Softening the ground, making paths where no paths were
Pungent scents rise to refresh me
And I breathe deep and long
And then I saw it in the distance
A plume of smoke from a house or a campfire
Now that I know I can stay longer to explore
And anticipate the meeting later in the day.
Pauline Nolan
-----------------------------------------------------------------

Whispering leaves of silver
touch her silken centre
and the long trailing branches
form a circle to shelter
a place secure
a place for my dreaming
a place to remember
and to listen
for the sound of your voice
Here, where I knew you
you come once more
to tell me
your music
will come to me
in springtime.
Fran Sbrocchi

2002-10-31T20:22:00.000+10:00

Walking Alone
I came early in the morning
to walk by the river
I came to walk thinking
that you might be waiting
here, beneath the oak tree
whistling
or reading
I came alone thinking
that you might be dreaming
of sunlight
or shadow
or time for the planting

I've left you this message
and hope you will find it
and remember
the words
of the poem that we shared. Fran

do you know I never left you?
your memory holds my image fast
correct to the last detail

I'm there in the photograph you have of me
next to our bed
waiting for you

I whistle with the wind to pass the time
and sing lustily as rain pelts down
hard on the tin roof

you will hear the echo of my voice
down by the river
when you least expect it

Jen

2002-10-30T09:13:00.000+10:00

Old Photographs
I have been walking
paths of my memory
alone
for you have gone
and there is no one
who remembers
when we were together
and young.
Yet here is your picture
and you are still smiling
for me. Fran

I am working on trying to search my family history and all I have are myths and photos of smiling realatives from the past. They seem to haunt me once they have been unpacked from the storage boxes they have lived in for 30 years. They smile or look back sternly at me, as forces within my soul that I have never met. They seem to say that their immortality lives in my remembering their faces. Now if they could only reach me with their stories. If I could write poems as beautiful as the rest of you this could be the source of some great verse. Would love to hear what you would write on these thoughts. Do I dare ask?
Jane Crone

And I, wonder if poetry is the only way to write. I think the only way to write is what comes naturally and so, perhaps, one need only to write a postcard to each ancestor and place it with his picture in the file. Perhaps there is a question one would like to ask of a grandmother who looks so stern but had eight children. Why don't we write a note and ask her what it was like to live in a village. Perhaps you could ask the person in the picture how she would like to be remembered? Perhaps just a list of the few things you truly knew about someone is all that is needed to seal the face to heart. What would an uncle like us to use as the caption? (One of mine was a chap who used to say "The weather is so bad today it is only fit for a funeral" . On his own funeral day one of the grandaughters quoted this and all of us knew that in that instant Lee was back with us. For he had made us laugh together. We would like to hear your stories. Fran

Faces On The Wall.

Faces on the wall,
Photographs of family and friends.
People we love,
Some, not with us in this world,
Others, far away
In a distant state or land
We miss them greatly, these
Faces On The Wall.

Faces on the wall,
Photographs of family and friends,
People we love.
Ones we can spend time with each day,
Those we see now and then,
Do we appreciate these times?
Do we show our love for them?
Or will we regret we never did,
If they too, became missed
Faces On The Wall.

(c)T.Seed. 2202.

Anne.

How you loved your horses, ever since you were a child.
Your faithful companions through good times and bad,
Fulfilling your childhood dreams,
Reminders of the life you once had
With mum, dad, brothers and home
And the many Equestrium trials you'd won.

A beautiful model, every young girls dream!
The catwalks glammor, the newest fashions.
Pictures needed for new editions,
Photographers from different magazines, clicking their cameras.
Time in the spotlight didn't seem as bright.
Compared to love, marriage and family nights.

'Happily ever after', didn't happen for you
Another young girls dream now was gone.
Shattered, you braved life through all your fears.
Determined to go on, living mostly alone,
You faced your challenges, wiped away your tears,
Raised your children, seeing them through.

You settled in the countryside at last!
Ran 'holiday', live in riding classes.
Giving your youngest, only daughter,
The life you loved and remembered.
By example you taught your children and grandchildren.
To never give up, to always keep going.

Two years ago you were taken away.
You lost your fight for your life.
Now, you live in our hearts and memories.
Your children, grandchildren, friends and family,
Better people for having known and loved you,
Anne - daughter, mother, grandmother, sister, friend and wife.

(c)T.Seed 2002.

On the 28th March, two years ago, we lost Anne to cancer. She left behind 4 children: Clive, Quenton, Jason Seed and Gemma Williams.

She presently has 5 grandchildren: Cassandra, Melissa, Robert, Natalie and Nicola Seed.

She is greatly missed and loved by all.

2002-10-20T20:50:00.000+10:00

I've fluttered in and out
dipped into the fading flowers
but could find among the reeds
no new blossoms

Lonely Here
I've walked along the edge
of the sacred river
but you have gone
leaving a single track
a leaf, barely turned
to mark your presence here.

Perhaps the next time
I come to the river
I will here singing
and know
you are
near.
Fran Sbrocchi

Lonely Here
I am in the gentle breeze that blows
gently on your face.
I am in a smile and in the eyes
of a childs face.
I am in your heart and memories,
So close to you, always.
I am in the sun that warms your skin,
I am in the first birds song,
I am with you - always.

T.Seed 2002.

The Leaving:

Old men plough while sons grow cold under the mountain
Prairie wheat fields murmuring golden and rich in the days before harvest
the smell of grass-- long hay newly mown
dry crunching under our running
and we counted our days in puffs of old-man dandelions
knew our distances in the long rows of telephone poles.

At the base of the poles we put our ears to wood
that trembled messages of the great world
Wind on our shoulders telling-
listening we knew that the time of our leaving would be soon.

The winds of migration were everywhere
in the v-line ofducks and the wide sweep of Canada geese
We heard at dusk the calling and in the morning packed
our bags growing fat with things we could not leave
memories of a hundred days of our mothers
and of long words of our fathers
as they sat round the furnace in evenings remembering

Remembering the furrows and the days they ploughed virgin soil
talk of the finding
talk of their wandering
and of coming to this rich black land and of how in long furrows
the seed had been sown - hand to machine
or of an old horse tied to a pulley
of trees retreating to the edge
to the fenced edges.

The scent of autumn clung to our memory to our fathers
but we were young and knew it was time to go
we left thinking that in spring we would return.
Fran Sbrocchi

Lonely Here
but by spring the air was ripe with promise
and our roots were anchored deep
in fertile soil

nourished by a cornucopia of plenty
and warmed by endless sunshine days
we were replete with love and crimson-berried wine
and learnt new songs in the promised land

how could we leave
so soon
what we had sought
so eagerly
on the winds of change?

oh
how we had changed
ourselves

we knew in our hearts
we would not return
though torn by thorns of remembrance
and thoughts of loved ones
anguished

shadow figures
waiting by the river
hoping for a sign
a singing on the breeze

walking along the banks
as spring turned to summer

they came down to the river
throughout the golden days
until a leaf fell
fluttering
to the ground
before the first frost

when ice stopped the river's flow
there was heard a ghostly song
keening in the bare branches

it is only the wind
they said
finally
only the wind.....

Jenny Aarts

Lonely Here
We found instead
our feet upon the distant shores
of a land so far from home
and here, we had to start again,
begin our lives, anew.
Our memories kept us strong back then
and keep us strong today,
as we remember the ones we love are
with us still - today.

(c)T.Seed 2002.

2002-10-19T15:50:00.000+10:00

The Prompt
Shadowing

I sometimes feel a little uneasy about that imagined self of mine - the Me of my daydreams - who leads a melodramatic life of his own, out of all relation to my real existence. So one day I shadowed him down the street. He loitered for awhile, and then stood at a shop window and dressed himself out in a gaudy tie and yellow waistcoat... Logan Pearsall Smith, Trivia 1918

Shadow yourself within Lemuria and observe as much as possible about yourself.

A Response from Vi Jones
Crepuscular rays created by the sunrise and filtering through the window awakened me. Too lovely to lay about, I thought, so I got up and showered, the stream of water chasing away the last remnants of sleep.

I stepped out into the street and, following a woman who was ahead of me, boarded the first bus. I moved toward the back of the crowded transport and hung on the strap as the vehicle rocked and swayed. Since I had nothing better to do, I though it would be fun to follow the woman and see where she would lead me – sort of a Day in the Life adventure.

We changed routes at the town square and boarded another bus. This one was empty except for a couple of teens sitting in the rear and clutching colorful kites. I took a seat directly behind the woman. She was rather attractive in a natural sort of way. Her neck length salt and pepper hair waved easily over her collar, insisting as it were on it’s own styling. She wore blue jeans, a colorful, lightweight sweater over a turtleneck tee, and carried a blue daypack with a light windbreaker threaded through the straps.

We got off at the beach. I waited at a discreet distance while she sat on the cool sand and removed her shoes and socks. With her socks stuffed inside, she laced her shoes together and tied them to a pack strap. I waited patiently, staring at the horizon and trying to not be intrusive, as she rolled her jeans up to just below the knee. She hadn’t noticed me yet which was a good thing, for how would I explain my shadowing her?

When she removed her graduated dark glasses and looked my way, I was stunned by the intensity and depth of her brown eyes from the corners of which squint wrinkles spread like miniature cobwebs. She wore tiny dolphin earrings and around her neck, a silver chain. I smiled awkwardly, but she seemed not to notice me.

She drank some water from a bottle strapped to her pack, then headed toward the surf with a lighthearted step. There were few people on the beach; a couple exercising their dog, an old man walking head down as if afraid of the expanse of Nature that surrounded him, and two middle aged women who marched as if to the sound of bagpipes. My quarry waved to the women and took off down the beach at a clip. I had to move to keep up, but keep up I did.

She stopped suddenly and dropped to her knees to examine something she had spotted in the sand, a shell, I think. After studying it for several minutes, she took a journal from her pack and proceeded write and to draw the shell, picking it up for closer study, then setting it down again, as carefully as if she were handling a priceless work of art. When done, she took the shell to the water’s edge and rinsed it off before holding it high, presenting it as a gift to the mist-adorned sun. Her lips moved, perhaps in prayer. Then, at the water’s edge, she laid the shell carefully on the hard packed sand and photographed it before the surf wrapped it in its embrace. She turned quickly, sending me a smile before continuing her journey of exploration while aware of my existence in her world.

She continued along the beach, strolling, skipping, walking briskly, but stopping frequently to look at this or that, until she came upon some driftwood; trunks they were, from some distant forest. She sat on the sand, and using the bleached wood as backrest and table, pulled a picnic kit from her pack and spread a small cloth before unwrapping a sandwich and opening a small container of applesauce – lunch in style in the out of doors. Some might think her an odd duck, but I saw her as a human in the moment with no yesterday or tomorrow – she was living fully in the present and completely absorbed in the beauty around her. She was one with the environment in which she moved.

After lunch and some more journaling, she stretched out beside the smooth wood and napped. She fitted somehow; she was part of the scene, as natural as the sand, the wood, the singing surf, and the sky above.

I followed her activities for the rest of the day, even following her home. Wordlessly, she invited me in. She had to, you see, for I was her shadow and she was me.

Vi
©February 2002

2002-09-23T10:45:00.000+10:00

The Shadowlands is an extended piece that Jane Tilton wrote for the Lemurian Forum

I let my imagined self free as Heather suggested, to go wherever it chose, and was so surprised to find myself on "The Oak Lined Street", as a 'spiritual recreational therapist'. ( Talk about melodramatic!) There is a definate tongue in cheek going on here with a slight bent towards humor but I am thourally enjoying the journey. I am debating whether to share it here as it is becoming very long.
I did want to let you know that I have not dropped out of Lemuria but am still on this journey. This subject really has a lot more to it then we realize. When I reflect on this creature of my imagination and its life beyond my realities I feel like it has reached deep into my subconscious and is working out basic desires to understand and help a time in life that I could never accomplish any other way then with magical powers. It is a phaze that none of us can avoid, and perhaps it is my fears of entering this stage that has sent this creator of impossible feats out to solve what I can not.

Because the subject is getting beyond a short article I think I have decided to just enter the first page of the journey and if you are interested in reading where it is going let me know. Here goes:
THE HOUSE ON THE OAK LINED STREET

The street was lined with large oak trees and the homes were large colonial homes left over from another decade. I love the looks and the mystery of older houses, and inside each house, even today, there are people making it a home. I always wished I could peek into each home and see the stories being unfolded, and now I have the chance to enter one of these homes.

Oh, I am sorry, I should introduce myself first. My name is Elesia and I am a Samaritan spirit. I was sent down from above to find some way to bring joy to 8 totally unrelated people living in one of these houses. I guess you might say I am an assigned recreational therapy director that no one can see or hear. I am not quite sure how this will be accomplished but you are welcome to come along with me as we explore the possibilities.

There, this is the house. It is still early morning and the only light in the house seems to be in the kitchen. Making our way through the sparsely furnished living room a large dining room reveal eight chairs around a long table. The dining room of the three bears cross my mind but this one has eight bears. Walking down the adjoining hall we step into the first bedroom on our left. In it Geraldine is just waking up.

Geraldine opened her eyes and tried to clear the fog in her brain left over from a restless night. Every morning greeted her with unfamiliarity. This room, the curtains, the sounds and smells, all left her uncomfortable. This was not her home. Perhaps today someone will come and take her home.

From where she laid she could just see a little of the sky and tree limbs moving in a slight breeze through the crack between the curtains and the wall. At home her studio curtains were never pulled. " Nature makes life worth living".

"Without nature I would not be an artist," she had often told her children when they would complain about their clothes not being washed or having to make their own lunches. "and art work buys those clothes you are wearing young man," she scolded. For some reason those thoughts made a pain run through her heart. Perhaps it could have been different..perhaps I should have…and then the thought disappears and once more Geraldine lay back on her pillow looking up on a completely unfamiliar environment, back in the fog of disorientation.

On the other side of the living room are two bedrooms. In the first bed room Jim lays stiff as a board in his bed, snoring. It is a strange site: Covers rising and falling over a huge belly on a man that is six feet tall in a single bed that is only a little over 6 feet long. His mind has taken him to the open plains where he is riding on horseback, herding a loose steer back to the herd. Sleep is the best time for him in this home on the oak lined street. Sleep helps him escape the reality of the other rooms and the other inhabitants.

Next to Jims room is Jerry, a tall, thin Morman man who is already up and dressed and glancing towards the clock every few minutes. He neatly arranges his dresser for the third time. In his mind he repeats like a mantra, "Neatness is next to Godliness" It seems to be a security for him in a world that is not of his choosing. He picks up his bible and with military erectness and one more glance at the clock, he sits on the edge of his bed and opens it to the book marked page.

The dining room lights are now are on and 7 place settings are neatly arranged around the table. A large bowl of fruit is in the middle of the table and cereal bowls on every plate. A menu on the wall shows that today it will be oatmeal and toast. Jim hates oatmeal.

2002-09-23T10:44:00.001+10:00

Back on the womens side of the house Coni, in the room next to Geraldines awakens to a drug induced state of nothingness. Her eyes and mind focus on nothing. All will has been drained from her because of the establishments need to control her aggressive tendencies. Anger is all that is left within her when the drugs start wearing off and even sorrow has been replaced by fear. Life holds no joy for Coni.

As I head past Conis’ room to look in on the next room my heart is heavy. What have I to give these people? What in the world could convince them that life is worth living. I have to steel myself from taking on their desperation. There has to be a way. After all I have been assigned here as the "Recreational Therapist." A Samaritan Spirit has to accomplish their mission. I was promised a few magic powers I could use if my ideas were valid. I figured this job would be a snap. Just jump in there and get them all in a room and give them some fun activities. They could sing, and I could read them stories. We could string beads and… It was becoming increasingly obvious to me that I can not visualize the chaos I would find myself in trying to lead any group activity.

Sounds of a radio playing country western music can be heard from the kitchen as the CAREGIVER prepares the breakfast. In the room next to Gertrude, Alice has maneuvered herself into her wheelchair and grins at her success.

"I may be 96 but I am not helpless yet", she laments and prepares to head for the kitchen for a cup of coffee. She knew the CAREGIVER would scold once she got to the kitchen but, "Just because I fell one time does not mean I can never do it again. " she mutters as she heads for the doorway. "I need a cup of coffee now not with my meal".

Instead of going straight to the kitchen Alice heads across the hall and pops her head into Olives room calling loudly…"Wake up Olive..It is time for coffee. "

"GO AWAY" Olive groans.

Olive chuckles as she wheels down the hall towards the kitchen.

Hazel immediately comes to her door to check on what is going on in the hall even though she is half dressed. She struggles trying to get into the sleeve of her sweatshirt which is actually the sweatpants. She ducks back into her room before Alice can see her and with a quick glance at the clock she mutters to herself as she struggles with the sweatpants. The Breakfast club has already been on for ten minutes. She threw the sweatpants into the corner and

2002-09-23T10:44:00.000+10:00

pART 3

The CAREGIVER was rushing from room to room now, helping everyone get up and to the breakfast table. Hazel headed towards the living room TV to escape the sputtering of the caregiver, scolding her for scattering clothes all over the room every morning. Having bad hearing worked to her advantage sometimes, she thought, as she put on a blank face and hurried down the hall.
I took a deep breath and sat down, in a lotus position, in the middle of the hall. I needed to think. I had been given only three days to improve all the lives here and at the moment I did not have a clue how to proceed. As everyone would soon be all together in one place I strained my mind trying to come up with an idea. As is the case with spiritual recreational therapists a magical connection to the source of ideas floated down into my brain...Ok... it is worth a try..I was off...
I headed out the door and towards the center of the business district. My intended helper #1 "Eleanor Flower, was just unlocking the front door of the "Pretty Posy" florist shop. As she entered the shop she leaned over and picked up the pile of mail that was dropped during the early morning hours. In that pile of mail was my inspiration: A brochure introducing Eatable Flowers to the proprietor of THE PRETTY POSEY florist shop.
Eleanor laid the mail on the counter inside the door and gazed around the shop with pleasure. It always seemed like a miracle that this shop was really hers. Since she was a child she had always loved flowers.
I had to get her attention fast.. I pushed the brochure onto the floor..
Eleanor lent over and picked up the brochure and replaced it with the bills, and headed towards the back of the shop to check to be sure the delivery man had placed the fresh flowers in the cooler. I had to do something fast before everyone was at the breakfast table. Aha.. the coffee....that’s it... rush the coffee...
Eleanor could smell the fresh brewing coffee and headed back to get a quick cup. As she filled her cup and with total intent to returning to the back of her shop she noticed that the brochure was once more on the floor.
"Strange", she thought, and as she picked it up and scanned it with curiosity. ""Eatable Flowers": "Interesting, but not marketable". she thought as she sat down behind the counter and began to read the brochure.
At various times family members of the inhabitants of "The Oaks", the assisted living house on Oak street, received bouquets of flowers from relatives, and it always made Eleanor feel that she should do something for these people. Especially since September 11th. Every news brocast encouraged everyone to extend acts of kindness to others. The people at the Oaks all seemed so detached from the real world and there was always a solemn silence in the home. She always got a pleasure from seeing their faces light up when she delivered their bouquets.
Returning to the brochure she was surprised how many flowers were actually eatable and nutritious. In fact they seemed to be extremely healthy. There were pictures of salads and different dishes artistically displayed with flowers, adding color and beauty. She got an idea. Her assistant was coming soon and if she hurried there just might be time.
Reaching for the phone she dialed the " The Oaks". After 6 rings the CAREGIVER breathlessly answered the phone. An impatient ‘Yes" was the only sound from the other end....
"Tell me". Eleanor asked. "Can your residences eat grapefruit"?
There was an uncomfortable silence on the phone and then the CAREGIVER asked impatiently, "Is this a prank call or do you have something pertinent to say?"
Eleanor explained her idea.

2002-09-23T10:43:00.000+10:00

Chapter 6
By the time I got back to the house Geraldine and Olive were sitting in the living room, with coffee, watching the end of the Breakfast Club. A woman was singing all the oldies and the two women were trying to sing the words, filling in with hmmm hmmm hmmm. I must remember this. Perhaps there is an idea here.

With a glance at his watch, Jerry was heading down the hall towards the dining room as the CAREGIVER and Jim headed for the bathroom. Jim smirked at Jerry’s discussed look as they past Jim was completely nude from the waste down and stunk worst then a fresh cow pad in a warm barn. Jerry quickened his step. Once seated at the table, completely erect, Jim once again glanced at his watch. Yes, fifteen minutes exactly and breakfast should be on the table. Jim was always seated 15 minutes before the time. Sadly no one else in this house was prompt.

At the same time Olive is heading into Conis’ room to take her to push her down to the dining room in her wheelchair. She greatly resented the fact that the caregiver would even ask her to do it just because that crazy Jim is on the other end of the house was yelling for her. Her mind kept rolling with a constant dialogue of complaints: "I am 95 years old and have already done my share." " I deserve to sleep as late as I want and do what I damn well choose to do after this many years." "After all, dont I pay $1800 to live in this place." " I could get treated better at the hotel down the street for a heck of a lot less money." "I sure to hell dont get paid to do this".

On arriving in the dining room she gave the wheelchair a shove into the spot at the end of the table that was Conis’. The wheelchair bumped the table and Coni looked up with fear filled eyes. Jerry began praying out loud in a soothing tone and Olive plunked herself down in her designated place completely discussed with both of them. It was at that moment that Eleanor came through the front door with a bouquet of 14 flowers. All the residences except Jim and the CAREGIVER followed her with surprised eyes. This was a definite change in the morning routine.

With a quick smile and call of ‘Good Morning" Eleanor hurried to the kitchen with her flowers. They were carnations with unusually short stems; not the usual long stems one uses for bouquets. . Eleanor instantly returned with seven flowers, each in a different color.

Repeating her first cherry greeting she went to each person, greeting them by their name, and asked them to pick the color that they liked most for their own.

"I just made a quick run out to the organic farm just outside of town just for you", she explained.

"Did you know that carnations are eatable?" "I have checked with your caregiver and none of you have any allergies and these carnations have never had chemicals of any kind on them, so for a treat this morning you are going to have carnations in your dish of fruit." "Sprays and allergies are the only precautions for carnations." " You’ll like them, they are sweet and spicy". "They taste like they smell."

Jerry frowned and let out a loud sound of disapproval, Geraldine smiled in delight . The rest seemed to go along with it as though Eleanor were one of their children who had just come in from the backyard with a gift. Coni’s face remained blank until the last flower was laid in her hand. Her eyes focused on the flower. Eleanor layed the last flower next to Jim’s place.

Rushing back to the kitchen she went to the tray already layed out with 7 small bowls of canned fruit left for her to serve by the CAREGIVE. She took the last 7 carnations and after rinsing them under cold water she carefully removed the petals and dropped them on top of the fruit.

Returning to the dining room with the tray she placed each bowl of fruit in front of the person holding the same colored carnation and as quickly as she came she headed out the door calling back her farewell. The residence sat in stunned silence, trying to comprehend the whirlwind that had changed the routine of their day and stared into their fruit bowl with the colored petals floating on top.

Geraldine looked up and declared " This day is going to be special". I can feel it in my bones".

On the other side of town June was putting the last touches on a tray of cups and plate of health muffins. The tea pot sat on a warming plate to keep the water at the right temperature when needed and a pan of water was simmering on thr back of her stove with some cloves and cinnamon in them to make her house smell good. Glancing at her watch she hurried to her bedroom to bring out the mats for the girls.
Her three closest friends had made a commitment to get together every morning for one half hour of Qi Gong after taking their children to school.

I got there just as they were finishing their routine with a few yoga positions and heading to the dining room for a cup of tea. This was my first experience in being able to enter a group unobserved and listen to their conversations. I sat down in a comfortable chair in the corner and debated how to do this. I had been able to et an idea across to Eleanor with a brochure but that would not work here. I now had to try putting a thought in this groups head.

June poured the water in the cups as the girls added their favorite herb tea bag to the water. "You know", she said as she passed the muffins , "A friend of mine works weekends at the Oaks and she said that it is sad how empty their lives were."

"Yes, I went with the church group to visit once and I guess they seldom have visitors or anything to look forward to, " Helen answered.

"As we were doing the exercises I kept thinking about September 11th and the presidents request that everyone try to do something for someone else, June continues." " A friend of mine works weekends at the oaks on weekends and she said it is sad how empty everyone’s life is there." "

"I was thinking!" " QiGong exercises are not hard to do and would be very good for them". "Why don’t we see if they would like to have us come over and lead exercise class three mornings a week" "We could go there instead of here"?

All four of the women started sharing ideas and I smiled." "I had succeeded". "I had planted the idea in their heads and the rest is up to them". I hurried off to the school to put my next idea into motion."

2002-09-23T10:42:00.000+10:00

AT THE SCHOOL

At the school the halls were still quiet except for the janitor who was putting the finishing touches on the conference room. The only other person in the building was Helen sitting at her desk thumbing through papers, but her mind was not on the work in front of her. She was trying to come up with something to address the recent complaints of a large majority of the teachers. There was to be a meeting in half an hour and as the principal she was expected to come up with a plan of action to lift the spirits of the school. With spring just around the corner the students had lost their enthusiasm for anything connected with school. Helen still had not come up with an idea. That is the moment I entered the room.

The radio had been on low, playing music, but when that station signed off a talk show took its place. Helen’s mind was so much on her problem that she did not notice. This was my opportunity. I had a caller call in and start discussing the Presidents request for contributing something to your community and slowly raised the volume on the radio. Helene reached over to switch off the radio and stopped when the words penetrated her mind and a kernel of an idea
took shape.

Helen remembered that on her way into work this morning the only other house on Oak street that had all its light on was ‘The Oaks", the assisted living home. It had reminded her of her own mother that had spent so many years in public facilities and the loneliness her mother had felt separated from the active world. Her main complaint had been the total lack of freedom. Now the residences were completely dependent on the occasional visiters. How many times Helen heard the words, "Nobody comes". Helene made a quick call to the CAREGIVER of ‘The Oaks" and asked her if her idea would be
accepted.

At the meeting that morning the teachers applauded as Helen told her the plan. Every Humanity class was to think up some type of entertainment lasting about thirty minutes to be performed by three students daily. By the end of the school year every student would have spent some time at the Oaks. Not only would it be enjoyed by the residences it would be a great community project for the students.

Helene was pleased to see that her idea had received a positive response. "Now, she said, "we must decide which classes will work on this so all the students will participate before the end of the school and how we will schedule them at the home. I will leave that to you teachers but the students are old enough to come up with their own ideas for the performances. It could be a great group project for all the classes. .

" What classes did you have in mind," asked Edna, the English teacher.

" Well I was first thinking of the music department and the drama department but the English department could have a poetry reading, and the history department could participate too." "They could do a history review, telling what was happening when these people were children." " Some of the residents are over 90 years old" . " The whole thing could be a great learning situation too."

I left the school and felt well satisfied. Another project was on the agenda for the near future and I had done it all in one day. I was feeling pretty proud of myself. When I returned to The Oaks it was afternoon and the silence was unbearable. Every inhabitant seemed to be suspended in their own lethargy. It was obvious that I had more work to do. Now I needed to think about afternoons!

THIS IS ALL THAT I WILL TAKE UP SPACE WITH AT YOUR WEBSITE. THANK YOU FOR THE ENCOURAGENEBT FROM INTERESTED READERS BUT THE AFTERNOON IS AS LONG AS THE MORNING AND THIS IS NOT THE PLACE FOR A NOVEL (SMILEY FACE). JANE

2002-09-06T22:09:00.000+10:00

A butterfly mind
refuses to settle

We've been to the workshop
on writing one's life

As we sat around the table
and listened to others

I decided
I definately decided

that mine, my life,that is
had a certain resemblance

to this butterfly's
short landings between trips

and a lot of travelling
between sips. Fran (:--)

2002-09-06T22:07:00.000+10:00

REMEMBRANCE AND REGRET

I lie upon a grassy knoll,
the sun cleansing,
healing in its warm embrace.
Mind wandering to times so long ago
and to my homeland far away.

I remember fields of green,
narrow country roads,
ancient valleys.
Picture postcard villages.
Boar’s Head, a pub.
An old stone church
with steeple high.
Bells on Sunday morning.

Rugged hills,
ferns,
wild flowers,
robins on the wing,
blackbirds too,
and finches.
Sheep with woolly coats
and tails.
Small woodlands, good for shade
or shelter from the rain.

Games I played in fabled woods.
Times beside the pond when,
I stared into its murky depth,
for what,
slithery, slimy creatures,
dragons of my childhood.

I picked fat and juicy berries,
eating more’n my basket held.
Nutting along narrow, country lanes.
Finding plate size mushrooms
in the dew dampened dawn.
In our garden, currents grew,
red and black.
Rhubarb, apples, swedes, and carrots,
parsnips, peas, and beans,
and onions by the score.

The house, rough stone and gray
kept us warm both night and day.
Fireplace with flickering flame,
welcome comfort in cold and rain.
My tiny room,
birthplace of dreams,
adventures too.

What happened to those dreams of yore,
where did they go?
Are they floating still on fluffy clouds,
sky borne creatures
that I alone can see?
Or are they buried still
deep in the mind of the child in me?

I lie upon my bed this night
with moonlight through the window
reaching deep into my soul.
It takes me back once more
To my homeland faraway.

I think about my mother and my father,
both gone, my sister too,
her life cut short at seven.
I wish so much to speak
the words I could not utter then,
words not spoken in our home.
Is it so hard to say, I love you?
Such simple, basic words,
but ones we need express the most,
but the hardest ones of all to say.

I wish I could return
to that land so faraway
and to the dreams I left there.
I wish I had a second chance
to say what needed to be said.
Too late except to whisper to my pillow
and shed a tear or two.
Grab a moonbeam, child inside,
grab a moonbeam
and take me there,
to that land so faraway.

Vi
(c)February 2002

Floods of Memories

Lately floods of memories have been coming back to me from my childhood. Coming here and reading others writings has sparked my own memories, as well as writing a story for submission which entailed me having to search the Web to ensure these memories were correct, I feel like a door has been opened and I am inspired to write,even more. My researching took me back to where I was born in Great Yarmouth, different websites, showing me photographs and giving me information confirming my memories, has created the feeling of wanting to go on an extended holiday to write from a perspective of the present, this I hope will come in the not too distant future until then I will write about my childhood revisted.

I have many favourite memories. I don't really know where to start, but I'll give it a go.

Our whole family would always get together over Christmas - and there were quite a few of us, my nana had 11 children, 8 of them still living, in and around Great Yarmouth, so add to them wives, husbands and children (my cousins)you have a large gathering. After Christmas lunch we would oftentimes sit around the table and play cards, we would of course need more than one deck! We would play many card games, matches were used for the kitty (until the adults got serious), and us children would take it in turns sitting near our parents learning the game.

Other fond memories were of my nana, my sister and I would often sleep over her house, I would love to snuggle into the feather bed mattress, pulling up the feather doona. It's a memory I always remember. Nan would sit for hours putting my sisters and my own hair in ringlets, or rags. We often had the hot poker for the fire used as a ringlet maker.

Nans house was a small two bedroomed, two storey place, complete with its own ghost called 'Charlie'. The stairs use to frighten me as it was from them, the stair door would slam shut of its own accord, nana called it her very own ghost and told us not to worry.

Nana would take us to the jumble sales, I use to love these (its probably why I love op shops today). She would buy dolls that were still fairly well intact and unbeknown to me at the time, she would take them home and make them clothes, clean them up and they would become our Christmas presents that year. With such a large amount of grandchildren to give presents too this was obviously the best she could do. We didn't know or care, nan always gave us something and it was usually something we wanted (at that age all us girls wanted dolls).

Our first house was a house bought from council at a reduced rate, it was next door to a condemned house (an alley way separated us). My mischievious brothers and I would go exploring in that house, it was dangerous, thank goodness my mother never found out. Around the corner new flats were being built as part of a redevelopment of the area. My brothers and I would jump out of the window gaps onto the builders sand below us from each floor, until we were too scared to do it any more. Thank goodness my mother never knew about that either!

A little shop at the top of our street was where we would take our threepence and buy a bag of sweets each week. This was a real, English,old fashioned sweet shop, I use to love that shop.

We moved later and sold our first house (now totally renovated) back to the council and made enough profit to get a nicer house in a nicer area of Great Yarmouth. My parents ran a bed and breakfast at this new house and in holiday season us children would move to small rooms at the rear of the house, off of the laundry, so we could accomodate our guests. My parents slept on a pull out settee.

I remember one time after playing football with my brothers and their friends I went home for a drink and walked into the house and was introduced to our guests - I think they were our very first guests - well the room began to smell and it was discovered I had stepped in dogs pooh! How embarrassed we all were, luckily they were not snobby and laughed it off - having had children themselves.

From our new house, my trip to school was further and from a different area of town, I soon shortened it by walking through the cemetry/church yards. Here, I would read the gravestones and wonder about the people they referred too. Our school was actually once a monastry of the Benedictine Order, who served St. Nicholas church. Opposite the church, was what I believe, was once the priests or ministers residence, way back in the past - but was now the writing house of Anna Sewell the author of Black Beauty, the childrens classic. I remember peering into the diamond cut old windows and saying to myself - I want to be a writer - when I grow up. I am now trying to achieve this in my life and feel like this is more or less my destiny.

The pleasure beach and the market place, the coastal walk along the 'Golden mile' shore which was a mixed wonder of gardens and different activities. The horse and carriage rides along the road side, the candy floss, hotdogs, movies and simple joys of spending time with our parents exploring the coastal excitement.

Oh and how we all loved to collect and make our conkers!

Guy forks night was another fond memory, fireworks, bonfires and our guy fork, home made dummy was a night we looked forward too.
Toasted marshmallows, warm clothes and a gathering of the neighbours for the bonfire and fireworks was certainly a night to remember.

We had castles very close to us too and these were a fascination and insight into the past of long ago, Great Yarmouth once had a huge wall built all around it to protect it from attacks from the sea.

These and many other fond memories return to me now and I am thankful they have, I feel I have found my roots and can now expand even greater in my efforts to write. I may choose to branch out from a different perspective and put myself in the attacks suffered in Great Yarmouth throughout history. All I do know at present is I am overjoyed to have all those wonderful memories come floating back to me. I am ever grateful for the opportunity to revisit my childhood.

(c)T.Seed 2002.

2002-08-25T21:20:00.000+10:00

Hot summery nights in the Christmas holidays
When Nana came to stay
She was a moody woman too
And we were all insensed when she called our city
A village, just to be superior
But the cards would always come out
And we three, two sisters and one brother together
Had all learned the various arts
Euchre, 500, gin rummy, and the mother of them all
Canaster
Nana loved this one and we never worked out why
But looking back, she had the upper hand
She would simply cheat and then claim that she didn't
Many nights were spent in tears with Dad called in
How he managed to adjudicate such a thing is hard to say
I remember the shock of realisation
Your Nana was not supposed to lie and cheat
Only children did that and then got caught
Now I just laugh, that was her and people are complex
And now I am reminded of our last meeting
Nana in intensive care, she couldn't speak
But we wrote notes to each other and she liked
The deep crimson camelias I had brought from my garden
I promised to take her there when she was better
But I think she knew, she wouldn't be coming out again
That was the last time
Nana with camelias
by Pauline Nolan

2002-08-25T21:19:00.000+10:00

Pickup Sticks

Gathering firewood, a delightful chore,
An ancient right of passage,
A wholesome occupation.
It connects us to those who’ve gone before,
Who’ve gathered, too, the sticks and twigs
Fire contained within the hearth is one thing,
But fire inside a ring
Of stones,
Beneath the stars,
Awakens the primitive
From deep within the ancient soul.
We are reminded
Of where we’ve been,
And from whence we came.
Not all believe that we have lived before,
And yet,
We have, in one form or another.
I live within the flames
And the smoke that rises …
I live in every leaf and blade of grass.
I hear myself in the Night Bird call,
I breathe as the Earth breathes beneath me.

It is then,
After we’ve gathered all the sticks
And stacked the logs in a pile,
That the warming flames reach out
To comfort,
To heat our bodies and our stew,
But, most of all
They set the Muse in motion.
What better feeling is there,
Of a job well done?

Vi
©February 2002

2002-08-25T21:18:00.000+10:00

Sibling Games:

This isn’t going to work
I can’t go back again
I cannot think the way she did
I’ve lost her somewhere along the way
She was always afraid of opening the door.
She is still afraid of a dark room.
She was always afraid of the cellar,
The cellar that smelled of potatoes about to rot.
The rustlings that might mean mouse, or worse, a rat.
The dark corner under the steps, where something old
and spoiling lurked.
She hated carrying the kerosene lamp.
she knew she might stumble and the globe shatter
and leave the open flame.
She hated the cupboard with the scent of cheese and souring cream.
She could see herself falling with the pitcher full of milk.
Still, she knew she must and opened the screen, grasped the jug turned down the
burner and climbed toward the open door above.
Her brother
shuts
the door.
If he comes by, he always shuts the door.
Why do brothers who are not afraid
by Fran Sbrocchi

2002-08-18T17:59:00.000+10:00

Try the following exercise that is based on the premise that within the garden of Dinoysus, deep within our psyche, lies a sensuous world, filled with a profusion of nature's fruits. It is just a matter of finding your way into this walled garden.

Play some pan flute music like Medwyn Goodall's Medicine Woman and sit quietly in front of your journal, holding a simple seashell in your left hand and your pen in the right hand. (Assuming your right hand is the dominant hand. You can reverse this) Caress the shell with your fingers. Let your eyes travel over its surface. Let the music that Pan used to attract the nymphettes waft into the house within. Breathe deeply. Close your eyes and quietly wander into the corridors of your shell using your senses. Look around. What do you see, hear, smell, touch with your naked feet. Wander through the multi levels of the shell compound. Peer through unopened doorways and windows. Notice your surroundings. Feel the surfaces. Move to the compound where Dionysus and Pan have retreated. Find the doorway to their space. Note what the door is made of. Let the door come alive. Is the door prepared to open itself? Do voices call out? What do you hear? Allow the pen to write whatever is entering your mind. Consider writing the dialogue you have with Dionysus and Pan. Ask them how you can honour them respectfully and unify them with your everyday self. Ask them how to write.

Responses from Lemurians

As I held the precious shell in my hands my mind escalated into another gear and I found myself sliding at break necked speed into the abyss of the shell. Colors and smells swirled through me and then just as dramatically I crashed, feet first, into a solid inlayed wall. I laid there, in silence, attempting to comprehend where I was and what I was seeing.

When I finally regained my equilibrium I realized that somehow I had slipped into the interior of the shell and was now staring at a smooth marble like wall made up of millions of inlayed pieces of abalone that reflected beautiful paste colors with no obvious light source. I stood up and ran my hand over the wall. It was beautiful.

As I stood, running my hand over the surface of the wall. It seemed to be responding to my touch. As I moved my hand to the right the wall seemed to move to the right. The wall actually consisted of moving panels and as they slowly separated I could hear the magical notes of a pan flute and a deep voice welcoming me into the private chambers of Dinoysus.

I expected to find a magnificent interior within but to my surprise I faced the backs of three large overstuffed chairs and foot stools in front of a roaring fireplace. A handsome man got up and welcomed me with his hand extended and a genuine smile on his handsome face. He introduced himself as Dinoysus, and the man in the other chair was his friend Pan. Pan made no attempt to rise or to lower his feet which were stretched out in front of him on the footstool. I had the distinct feeling that he was not happy to welcome me. I tried to respond naturally as my eyes darted nervously from his hoof feet and his mixed appearance of half man half animal. I failed miserably.

"We were hoping someone would find our chamber and add their opinions to our conversation." Dinoysus said as he poured me a glass of wine and motioned me to sit down in the third chair.

"We are discussing a recent theory we heard that said ,’We are not creatures with minds that have emotions, but creatures that have emotions that can think’, and we seem to be deadlocked." Pam thinks we are thinking machines first and that thought generates the emotions and I tend to believe the theory is correct." " We would really appreciate your opinion."

(to be continued) Jane Tilton

Sipping my wine in front of the roaring fire in this comfortable overstuffed chair I slowly started to relax. I was aware that the two men were talking but I could not focus my mind on their words. I kept churning the topic over in my head. The topic immediately send feelings of inadequacy through my mind. I know very little on the workings of the function of thinking and emotions of the mind and dreaded revealing this.

I was suddenly jolted to the present by the robust laughter from Dionysus as he shouted loudly at Pan, "See, that is proof that I am right". I jerked around and looked into the very irritated eyes of Pan and the very amused eyes of Dionysus.

"Oh forgive us my friend." he said to me. "I should have warned you". With us there is no need for speaking out loud. We know every thought you think and you have just helped me prove that my friend here is incorrect."

I was instantly angry. "You did not forget, you set me up", I said. As I started to get out of my chair I said, "I find this situation very uncomfortable and I am going to go".

Dionysus immediately jumped up and with all the charm I have heard he possessed he persuaded me to stay just a while longer. "At least finish your glass of wine"’

I reluctantly sat back down and was determined to hurriedly finish my wine and leave, but first I was curious on how I had proved that the body is an emotional machine first.

"I do not understand how I proved this".

Pan replied, "My free thinking friend here thinks you entered the room feeling uncomfortable emotions first, which were further frustrated by my appearance, and then in your emotional inadequacy you fumbled through the topic." "Anyway that is his opinion."

"And yours?" I asked.

"I think, (think, mind you) , I think that as a human you entered our chamber with some preconcieved ideas of what and who we are and as misinformed as these ideas are they affected every emotion that you felt"

I stood up and replaced my glass of wine on the table and looking directly at Pan I said, "I do not know the answer to your topic, I only know that I do not feel comfortable and I am going to leave." " Much that both of you think is true so this leaves this whole situation unsolveable in my mind." " I am sorry, It seems that I am not the one to add to your conversation."

"Oh you did, my dear, you did" Pan laughed.

Dionysos followed me back to the doorway, apologizing all the way, as I thanked him for the wine. His over patronizing ways were also beginning to annoy me and that thought was definitely planted there by emotions.

As I left the shell I thought, "Perhaps the theory is not wrong, but simply incomplete."

" Just perhaps we are both a thinking mind that generates emotions, and an emotional machine that generates thoughts, and as humans it is our job to balance these two elements."

NOW WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THAT WHILE I WAS THERE!
Jane Tilton

The sand was cool and gray and wet--a gritty mush under my bare feet; but, as I step onto the shell surface, I feel smooth ridges, and the curved shape of the shell presses into my sole. I feel it's solidity against my soft flesh. I feel the give of my sole against the cool surface, and I spend some time walking about on the outer surface. My hand reaches up to grab unicorned peaks, as I use them to balance, and to pull myself up hills, as of a mountain ridge, to climb to the utmost peak. It is morning, and still a slight chill in the air. I hear gulls and think of them scavenging for bits of fish-smelling flesh. They are not unlike the gulls that scavenge parking lots and garbage dumps; and such things, the clutter of the world, seems always to be intruding themselves upon my mind. I can't let go of it. But I find myself, sweaty but happy, standing on the highest point of the shell. The topmost peak is cracked. There's a small hole in its pinnacle. I reach up to it. The walls of the crevice are smooth, it doesn't cut. It has been washed with salt for many months or decades? I don't know--how long does it take? I peer down into the corridor. There is a chiaroscuro effect--camera obscuro... in the brownness, I see a flicker of white, an image, something, someone, slightly dodge and then disappear--very fleeting. I am curious. Enough of the surface. I slide back down to the sand, and peer, somewhat cautiously, inside. There's a hollow smell. How can I describe it, except hollow? I can't say exactly, it's both ashy and acid; some mineral. Salt, I suppose. It's dank, but not unpleasant. I go in.

The smoothness of the shell emphasizes the grittiness of my feet, and that is not pleasant. The sand on them is starting to dry. But there is a little shell bowl, and it is filled with fresh water and floating petals. I wash my feet--very nice, pleasant. There is a light fragrance of petals. The water is tepid, perfect. I feel refreshed, and I proceed down the corridor.

The feeling of the inner shell surface is not quite what I expected--it is both smooth and rough. It is the smoothness of salt-washed shell, but non-slippery; rough in the way that a smooth pebble is rough. But, oh, the color. The palest of pink and white, translucent. I walk on. The roughness gives up to a smoother, more luxurious shell floor. It becomes more pure, untouched by salt. There are spots of dappled warmth and a peace-giving light overhead. The sun must be out now, but in here, I am protected from its harsh light, as if I am under a silky curtain.

The place is labyrinthine. Surprising. It didn't look so complex from outside. I see that that maze of passages must exist on a separate plane, as in some parallel existence... it seems to go on and on, just out of reach. I am reminded of clouds and bits of blue sky that float at the most heavenly depth in a shallow mud puddle, and I am like a child again, wading; or of the world inside the looking glass, that seems so deep and strange and inviting--the same, yet oddly different, and always elusive. I hear fresh water falling--how can that be? Like the babble of a clearwater stream. And there are distant flutes! Pan! He must be near! But now, what's this? a mosaic curtain, silk strings, tied with bits of blue-bottle glass and shells and twigs... and leaves! Some real, but some gold-and-silver, the most delicate of metal sculptures. I am reminded of the enchanted forest, in "The Princesses Who Danced Their Shoes To Pieces." And forest-like, it is deep. I can see that it goes well down into the passage, which darkens, and curves around until I can no longer see what's there. But I must follow the music, and I part the strings, which click and tinkle with the most lovely of sounds. Oh, it feels very nice, very sensual, as the curtain taps against my skin. It scrapes slightly, but in a pleasant way. And what is this? I hear a little frog, and the shade of the corridor becomes more pronounced. The flute seems closer. I walk and walk. Clearly this is no ordinary shell. It is infinite. I have discovered some magic door, and I am entering my own "Narnia." I never thought to discover such a thing for ME; and truly, I didn't think one even existed.

I have found the inner chamber. At last, I am there. I am in a woods and there is a clear stream! The water is so pure and the banks are mossy. The little demon-sprite laughs, and he really is just a boy! Pan. The music is lovely now, and he takes such a child-like delight in playing it. Innocent! How could I have said demon? But mischievous, and he darts away now, before I can speak. I can still hear the flute though, and it is sumptuous.

Where is Dionysus? I must find him, it is he that I must ask. Notwithstanding Frost's sardonic opinion, I believe that the demiurge will speak to me. I follow the stream.

Here, the ground is shell again, but it is the purest, cool-silk shell, like pink Mother-of-Pearl. Surely, I have reached the source. He is there. I see him. A being, very real, certainly human-like, yet supernatural. His skin is alabaster, and his brow is wreathed in laurel--real laurel, I do believe. Can it be? His hands are cupped, and in them is a light. Not a lamp, not a lantern, but pure light, like a micro-sun, cupped in his hands.

My mouth opens, and I stutter. My speech is halting, my mind is blank. I want to ask of death and life, and creative thought, and intellect, and love and war and suffering. Every image and scrap of an idea that lurks in every hidden archive of my brain shoves and jostles itself to the surface, like some rude, elbowing crowd, unruly and scuffling. And I am mute.

Dionysus says nothing. He just looks knowing and pleased. Not smug, but pleased, and this irritates me to no end. Is this what the journey comes to?

The music still plays. I see a little figure, all tiny and quick and smooth-skinned, with dark curls and goat legs, darting among the trees, well away. And that beautiful flute. It calls to me. My anger fades.

Now it is woods again, and brittle brown leaves and twigs crunch under my feet. I brush away vines and branches and the occasional sticky briar. I walk slow. I keep my own pace. No use trying to keep up with that mischievous flirt of a boy. A walk in the woods is always nice. There are fresh smells, and woody smells, and sweet smells, and leafy smells. Moss is underfoot and tiny lichen, each its own microcosm of pale, cabbagy, stiff leaves, and minute woody flutes pointed skyward, and the tiniest of toadstools. I can get lost in them, for hours. The flute helps.

Now it comes to me! It's Pan, after all. Not Dionysus. Oh, the god does his share, all right. He is the source, the essence of it, I won't dispute. He and the Muse, they are the source. But I was wrong to force the intercourse of words. It can't be specified, it can't be diagnosed and formulated and standardized. It must remain an essence, unstated.

Pan and his flute do the work. I can only follow where they lead. It might be a path, but I don't think it can be planned. No, the mischief-maker is creativity itself. It darts and zigzags and plays like a child. The Mother Muse and the Father Dionysus are the source only. They gave it life, and now it goes its merry way.

Now how did I learn that? From a shell?

Now I am on a sandy beach. Oh, this one is different. The sand is white, dazzling. Diamond-like, it sparkles. The sea is turquoise, bluer and more pure than anything that I've ever seen. It is brilliant. No doubt, I can look down and see fish of gold and red and blue and yellow, brilliant with shining scales. But I save that treat for later. For now, I'll lie on the beach and let the sun warm my skin. This is nice. I won't think at all.
D.K.P.

Walking through the seashell door, I can't see where I'm going, because the entrance curves gently all the way around to the hidden interior, but the mother-of-pearl surface is smooth and sensuous to walk on.

It cools my sand-baked feet, and tempts me to join the merry company of dancers already twirling and pirouetting to a lively tune on the shell's curled rim.
There is no question of refusal. Dance I must.

Blue, turquoise and green sea-colours of the transparent, luminous shell-floor shimmer and change subtly with every step the dancers take, whirling madly like a kaleidoscope when the music is fast and demanding, softening to a mere glimmer when the tempo becomes slow, moody and deep with romance, and the dancers gaze into each others eyes to see what magic they can find there.

I drift in the arms of a dream-dancer, floating on a wash of sea-colours. We dance down through the shell, our faces barely touching.

Deep inside the shell, sea-sounds echo softly off delicate pearl-hued walls, translucent like fine bone china.
When the dancing is over, the sea-music sings me to sleep, curled in the apex of the shell in my sea-lover's arms.
Jenny Aarts

I watch your sinuous dance
and envy you
below the silvery surface
O creature of the sea
Here on the shore we sirens
watch
and wait
and listen in a shell
for messages
to know
that you will come again
and sing
for us.
Fran

sea-nymphs rise in sea-spray mist
pale as foam on white crests
whisper enchantments through thin sea-shell walls
into sleeping sea-dancers' dreams

while siren-song haunts a moon-shined sea
the shell floats
taken by the tide
to where seahorses wait beyond the waves
with straight backs and curled-under tails
to carry the precious load
and deft nymph-hands harness the shell
with seaweed reins

they descend
swiftly
through black night-waves
to Neptune's throne
on the sea-floor
Jenny Aarts

2002-08-01T22:17:00.000+10:00

Lemurian Rain

The wind picks up
As the sun is hidden
Behind the grey threatening sky.
The lightening cracks
The thunder roars
The relentless heat is blown away.

Droplets fall
Slowly at first
That unmistakable smell
Of raindrops on scorched earth
Fills our senses with
a renewed vigour.

We rush to the washing line
to bring in the clothes,
The raindrops feel so good, so fresh,
We want to forget the clothes and become a sponge
Soaking up the fresh, cool water.

Then we realise, it's pouring!
The plants struggle to stay erect,
under the pelting rain.
As they struggled under the scorching sun,
Yet they seem to know that if they can
survive this test,
They will raise their heads high and sing
with glee!

The water seeps into the earth and
the thirsty soil drinks heartily.
Too much, too soon will expose roots
to the elements again.

We've longed for the rain
as have the plants.
We hope for gentle, consistent rain but
most showers are never enough and can be rough!
Plants damaged, soil eroded.
Some of us complain.

Negative ions fill the air!
Invigorating people and plants.
The damp,earthy scents linger,
the earth is cleansed and renewed.
The birds come out to bathe and sing,
To celebrate the gift of rain.
Let us celebrate it too.

(c)T.Seed 2002.

The fragrance of rain
Is like the touch of a lover.
It consumes,
Holds us spellbound
As an aria
In a dark auditorium.
It rises to meet us
When we open the door,
Then, it teases,
And invites us to play.

The Fragrance of rain
After a dry spell
Is magic.
I capture its essence,
Embrace it,
Hold it forever.
What better perfume
for milady’s heart
than the fragrance
of rain after a dry spell.

Vi
(c)January 2002

Rain pelting hard
Upon the windows
Upon the doors
Upon the roof
Driving in sheets
Lashing the trees
Running in rivulets
Down the green stems
Down the brown bark
Down onto the grass
Pelting, driving, pounding
It comes in waves
Loud and insistent
Softly pausing, the silence of expectation
Fresh aromas waft now
Through the open window
Pungent and cool, mixed with grass
Mixed with lemon
Mixed with life
Pauline Nolan

The verse written by Vi was the first thing I read. The words she uses touches me deeply. They stir familiar joyous emotions within me, but still they touch some deep sadness that I do not understand. I heard recently that , "We are not brains with emotions but emotions with a brains." Rain seems to touch a deep emotional level;

As thunder rumbles in the distance:

I am a women
filled with fear
huddled around a fire
in a cave in prehistoric France

As the thunder rumbles in the distance

I am a woman
in a hot tent in Mongolia
trying to grab some sleep
before breaking camp and moving on

As the thunder rumbles in the distance

I am a woman in Ethiopia
holding her parched lip child
in her lap without
a moist tear to flow

As the thunder rumbles

I am my friend in Australia
strolling in her garden
scanning the sky above
for any sign of rain

What twist of fate
placed me in this western world
enjoying the emotions
of a rumble of thunder above.
Jane Tilton

More Rain
In Saskatchewan,this morning a child will walk to school over the high snow, a jack rabbit watching will hasten away leaving his long tracks for her to measure with her mittens. She will lie down on a new drift and make herself an angel, swinging her arms wide enough to carry her onto a drifting cloud. She will dream that she can ride the wind to Africa, or to England, where a queen lives. She’ll nod to the lady, sitting on the tall throne and visit a hobbit in his lovely cave. The wings let her drift, a chill breeze brings her back. She pops up from the bank and hurries, lunch kit bumping in the red haversack. Runs down the hallway, makes it in time.
Some day, as springtime melts the pack, the shadow of an angel, smiles.
Frances

2002-05-08T14:55:00.000+10:00

Words gathered in the Lemurian fishing baskets
To sit an dream
beside the lake
and wait
for it will soon be spring
and I may see
the poplars on the hill
burst their green blossoms
in a mist
a shower
a puff of dragon breath
against the pines
and winter
dark. Fran
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
I sit alone
and view the sea.
My mind is blank,
great thoughts elude me.

I treasure the void
no words for a book
just like the salmon
they will not hook.

For what if all thoughts
emptied out on requests
and the fish of the sea
replied to fishermans quest?

I honer the silence
and treasure the sea
that refuses to offer
its treasures to me. Jane
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Dear little fish where are you
Hiding in the waves
Flickers of silver to tempt me
Gone in the flicker of a moment
Did you dive deep?
Into the forest of kelp?
Perhaps you are hiding down there
Under translucent leaves
That sway in the currents dancing
Dear little fish just give me a clue
To your whereabouts
Perhaps you have moved now
Under the rocks nearby
Where white water rushes through crevices
Crabs scuttle to and fro
Perhaps little fish you are floating
In the calm pockets below
Come little fish, I am waiting
Waiting so patiently
For you little fish to tell me
Stories of the sea
Come little fish, don't be frightened
I won't eat you for lunch
Just surface here for a moment, whisper
And swim with silver scales flashing
Out to your friends in the bay
Send me wave as you go, with glistening fin
And I promise never to hurt you or any of your kin
Just tell me the secrets, the secrets of the deep
So I can dream of your stories
And the writer can at last go to sleep!

Good night Lemurians, from Pauline
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

I too walked by the river
the palms gave shade
We watched and counted gulls
following the fishing boats
The village women will have baskets
overflowing
and boast
of their men who bring
food
from the sea. Fran
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
I have come again
and found the place we knew
empty

I thought of you
and of the day we sat together here
and whispered

The water answered and entered
the leaves twisted and sparkled
in the autumn wind

We knew that we, no longer young
would not come again
yet river, and water, sand and the whispering wind
woul remain

I come alone
to the river
remembering Fran

2002-02-21T10:18:00.000+10:00

While I was busy rehashing our conversation, my feet seemed to direct themselves and I soon found myself heading towards the river. Of course, I knew I was going there but it was as though I was driven there by some unknown force...sort of just carried there. I was neither surprised nor perplexed. I just WAS. I knew Jane well and knew that she would not have told me about her River Wisdom without good reason.

Here I was, water echoing through the trees, growing louder as I drew nearer. It was still beckoning me on and I proceeded until suddenly, I found Jane! I guess she knew me better than I thought! It was strange, but we didn't speak. I just continued to follow her.

At this point, I'll ask you to read her entry entitled "River Wisdom" as I see no point in repeating what she has put so eloquently.

I will tell you however, that what I experienced was incredible and I came away feeling renewed and refreshed. Instead of being washed of all expectations of the future like Jane, I felt a renewal of spirit, as though I needn't be afraid of what the future held for me. I also felt, as Jane, that I had been cleansed of any regret of the past. I too found myself completely in the present and was very comfortable there.

Indeed, the river has relayed its answers well and we both returned to our visible world thanking the unknown for leading us to the Wisdom of the River.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Sue

2002-02-21T10:17:00.001+10:00

Jane came up to me as soon as I finished my reading and was as excited and surprised as I was to see me in this glorious haven. I invited her to my table and we talked for a while. It turned out that she arrived in Lemuria just a short time before me! How exciting!

I told her how I had enjoyed her meditation and we proceeded to get caught up on all that we'd done since our arrival in Lemuria. It was all so exciting and wonderful!

Then I asked her where she was staying and it turned out that she was right down the hall from me!!! We had soooo much to catch up on and share, it was a whirlwind of intriguing events and places we'd discovered.

Before we knew it we'd been sitting there for an eternity. We both had a few more things we wanted to do so decided to go our separate ways and meet in the Soul Food Cafe.

Before we parted though, she told me about her River Wisdom. How awesome it sounded and without even thinking, I knew that was where I was headed. My other plans could wait.

Sue

2002-02-21T10:17:00.000+10:00

Well, time has a way of passing more quickly than I care to admit. It's been almost a month and a lot has been going on in my visual world. I've never left Lemuria though. The thought of the theatre intrigued me and excited me. I love writing poetry and it seems to be just the place to share with those who enjoy writing or listening as much as I.

Walking through the doors of the Muses Theatre Dinner Club was awe-inspiring! It was the most beautiful theatre I've ever seen! It was decorated in burgundy, with high, arched ceilings. In the center of the ceiling was the most beautiful brass and crystal chandelier's I've ever seen! Throughout the theatre, along the walls were absolutely beautiful cherubs of gold. They were so intricately designed, right down to every feather in their golden wings! Although it seemed so elegant, it held a very friendly, casual air about it. I thought anyone would feel comfortable here whether they were dressed in formal wear or very casually, which shouldn't have surprised me because that seemed to be the norm for this beautiful little corner of the world.

The hostess seemed to know right where I wanted to be seated and proceeded to lead me to a little table off to the left of the room. The lanterns on the tables gave it a very nostalgic touch and I knew I was in for a splendid evening!

Dinner was superb! I wasn't really very hungry because the weather here is so perfect, you neither work up a sweat nor need your bones warmed. I settled for a Greek salad with a few extra olives. I love those olives! lol A slice of fresh tomato basil bread was the perfect compliment to my meal. I also opted for a glass of chianti. Italian I know but it blended well with my dinner.

Just as I began to eat, a woman began reading the selection she wrote. I thought I recognized the voice but no...it couldn't be....not Jane! Could she be here in Lemuria all the way from Idaho?!? My goodness!!!! YES!!!! It is!!!! Oh, my!! I went to signal my waiter to invite her over to my table but decided to wait. Wouldn't she be surprised when I got up there and read my selection?! I sat and finished listening to her poem. It was a beautiful one about her Meditation Place. She's such an inspiration to me...I could listen to her for hours. Her reading ended all too soon and I decided I had better read mine before she had a chance to leave and my whole plan went down the drain.

I hesitated just a few minutes to give her a chance to take her seat. I got up and began my poem entitled:
Lemuria

I've discovered this island of Lemuria fair
This mysterious, magical land
Where wandering, exploring everywhere
Through crags and ocean and sand

With glorious trees that seem to speak
And caves seem to call your name
And nobody here is ill or weak
And everyone's treated the same

There's the story of Pagasus flying down
From the Aleian Field so fair
To drink of the age-old Hipocrene Fountain
It's refreshing, cool waters so clear

By chance if you gaze deep into his eyes
And entice him to carry you home
To his house where his mistress Urania waits
And through it you're welcome to roam

I love this glorious, magical land
I'll explore it and wander at will
Discovering all of the mystery here
And know I'll discover more still

Sue

2002-02-21T10:11:00.000+10:00

Would you like to join me as I follow the path up the hill to the river. I am hoping to absorb the Wisdom of the River.

The sound of rushing water echoes through the trees and becomes louder and louder as we near the river. The path ends and we step cautiously forward as we see wide, roaring, fast moving water rushing past us. Its energy is both exciting and frightening to us. We stop and stare in awe.

The waters rush past from an unknown source, heading downhill. There seems to be no set pattern except for the violent flow and splashes of river meeting rocks and tree limbs below the surface. Only a few recognizable branches are sticking out of the water as though they too could not resist the roar. We take off our shoes and step into the water.

As we move cautiously into the river the advancing waters acknowledge the new obstacle presented them and round ridges of patterns do emerge. Three and four circles, evenly spaced, encircle our legs, moving gracefully back to their established route on the other side. Looking back upstream to the rocks I see what I had first not noticed, that every time the water meets an obstacle, even though a wild disturbed splash does occur, a pattern of sorts is established. My eyes try to follow the pattern which quickly changes or dissolve and moves on. I try to grasp the first messages of the river; Everything changes.

Turning downstream I follow, with my eyes, the receding waves that only moments before had been arriving. I am reminded how much the river and life are alike; One moment that seemed to be the future approaching quickly dissolves into the past. The moment I stepped into the water I faced up stream to watch the waters coming towards me , my future rushing forward, and too soon they became a part of my past. "Wise river, does the present really not exist?" It seems that everything is rather fleeting and the pursuit of enjoying anything is almost impossible. Is it possible or even advantageous to appreciate fully the present? "Live in the Now"?

The river keeps moving on its own personal journey, ignoring my questions; or so it seemed. My thoughts were interrupted by a louder roar ahead that I had not noticed before. I stepped out of the water and headed upstream towards the roar. As I went around the bend in the river a wall of rock appeared and a cascading waterfall tumbled down from an unfathomable height.

The main part of the waterfall was in the center of the wall and a shelf like ledge seemed to invite me forward and behind the main surge of water. I removed my clothes and stepped onto the ledge, carefully moving forward through the wet spray and equally wet and slippery path. Water sprays bombard me from the center of the falls. The ledge carried me to a cave like chamber behind the falls. Stepping through the sprays and entering this surprising space I was amazed to find that the roaring sound I had become accustomed to were now strangely muffled. A wall of wet rock rose at my back and a sheet of rushing water formed the outer wall. Somehow, in this space, I knew I would find my answers.

Standing inside the chamber with no water touching me I listened to t water droplets splashing on the floor and rocks. I reach out to touch the escaping droplets and they quickly devolve in my hand. I slowly step forward into the falls. The droplets join into a solid mass and splatter on my head. I feel the force with my whole being. I am washed of all expectations of the future and cleansed from any regret of the past. I have reached a moment joined with all my senses that places me completely in the present. The river has relayed its answers well.

As we leave the river and return to our visible world I thank the unknown for leading me to the Wisdom of the River.
Jane Tilton

2002-02-21T10:10:00.000+10:00

HELLO EVERYONE
I did not realize when I came in here for dinner this evening that I too would be required to write a poem and share. I was hoping to just sit back in the corner and listen to everyone else, but seeing that is the price of admission and I have already enjoyed a delicious meal I will give it a try.

This afternoon I went exploring Lemuria for a good meditation place. I followed trails through the woods, I walked up hills with tremendous views ,I followed a stream, that turned into a raging river and gazed into a waterfall. All were inspiring and beautiful but none filled me with a meditative spirit……. Untill……

I stood
at the edge of natures comfort zone
and gazed towards a vast wasteland.

Desert stretched for miles
No vistas entice my vision.
Sun, sand, and silence beckoned me on..

One foot in front of another,
I moved forward across the sand
head bowed, eyes lowered, and mind empty.

For miles I walked
with the sun beating down
sapping my energy, draining my mind.

And when I was empty.
I turned and slowly returned
breathing in nothingness.

Ready to replace outdated thinking
accept new concepts and
shed beliefs that do not work.

I had found my meditation place.

D.K.P.

2002-02-21T10:09:00.001+10:00

Dear Journal,
I have only today to explore the island until the middle of December as in my visible world Thanksgiving preparations must be tackled and I have lots of details to handle for my art show December 1. This is my first art show since last December so I am really busy but I needed to do a bit more exploring and inner searching on the Lemuria for a few ‘purpose of life" questions and "Understanding of the Process of death".

I smiled as I reread my first paragraph in my journal. How pretentious can you get. After 70 years of living and asking those questions what ever makes me think I can get any closer to an answer to either of them on this island. I guess I should give myself credit for a noble purpose even if it is rather unrealistic. But now I need to put the journal aside and write a couple of cards.

Dear Sue, Are you really on this Island right now? In our newsletter I read your experiences and was thrilled that you found the Soul Café too. I knew you would enjoy it. The owner of this passage of the universe is traveling in Europe and I think I understood she would return by Christmas. I wonder if she will visit Lemuria when she returns. I hope to go to the Muses Supper club Theater tonight. I understand that the Muses do drop in and perform on the stage and also encourage the audience to come on stage and do readings. I am hoping you will participate. I love your work. Happy Thanksgiving to you. Jane

Dear DKP, Just a note to say Happy Thanksgiving to you. I enjoy your work. I returned to the gallery and took a slow stroll through everything. Do you ever stop by the Muses Dinner club Theater? Perhaps we will cross paths. Hope you have a great family gathering and you will return to Lemuria again soon. Jane

I dropped by the café and asked Phil to distribute my messages and after picking up a box lunch headed out to explore the island.

Jane Tilton

2002-02-21T10:09:00.000+10:00

2002-02-21T10:07:00.000+10:00

A week had past and as I opened the door to my room it felt like I had never been gone. The visible world had whisked me back to realities to be lived, but now, once more, I return to this interesting world.

I dropped into my easy chair and as I sat back to relax I noticed a pile of newsletters on my end table. The header reads: LEMURIAN WRITING SANCTUARY, a local newsletter. I was thrilled to see that there are others in Lemuria.

As I read the newsletter the journal entries written by Sue sounds familiar. Sue? I wonder if that could be my friend in Massachusetts. I have often thought she would love this island, and somehow she has found it. I am always amazed how she would write something that felt like it came out of my own brain. I guess that must be the sign of a really good writer.

I was thrilled to read her adventure in the Lemuria library. I must make a trip there soon. . Perhaps we will run into one another somewhere. I wonder if she will be reading one of her poems at the "MUSES THEATRE DINNER CLUB". I have been wanting to go there ever since I arrived.

There was a short notice of the Lectures of Feininger being on tape for those who missed his visit to the island. I was worried about that. And here is a short note from DKP who has a place on Lemuria of comfort and inspiration. I must head out of town and explore soon too. I look forward to finding such a spot for meditation and absorbing the inspirations of the muses. I can see my schedule is very full.

2002-02-06T09:39:00.001+10:00

2002-02-06T09:39:00.000+10:00

2002-02-03T17:52:00.000+10:00

Day 1 Lemuria

Completely refreshed, I dressed in a shocking pink, boat necked shirt and a pair of brightly flowered pink capri pants. I donned my sandals and was off to The Soul Food Cafe.

When I left my room, however, I decided to first do a little exploring. I walked down the corridor towards a floor to ceiling window where the sun was shining brightly through. Just before the window I discovered a beautiful library! How perfect! It had an exquisite mahogany desk, with big claw feet. You could almost see your face in the desk, it was so highly polished. On closer examination, it was stocked with plenty of linen paper and inks from India! There was even a computer for more ease in writing and editing...a favorite hobby of mine.

The matching chair was a gorgeous Italian red and gold brocade, with vines and grapes carved into the back of it. It also had those big claw feet.

By the window, were two very comfortable rocking chairs where one could sit and read for hours, or sit and watch the ebb and flow of the ocean. I thought I was in heaven!

As I began to leave the room I realized that right across the hall was a room that seemed to almost be a small Art Museum but was set up for an artist....many canvases...palettes...oil based paints...brushes....charcoals...oh, a huge array of different artist supplies of the finest quality! How lovely! I wondered if anyone used it?

Well, I'd better go down for my coffee and a bite to eat and stop dawdling. There was plenty of time for that later.

Phil greeted me at the door. He was such a happy go lucky man. Just seeing him made your heart sing. He brought a smile to your face with his very being. He showed me to a table by the window and handed me a cup of coffee for which I was very grateful. I thanked him and after exchanging a few pleasantries, he left and came back in an instant with a steaming plate of raisin French toast! How did he know I loved that so?!? He poured just the right amount of fine maple syrup over it and had also brought a couple of strips of bacon that were cooked to perfection...just crispy enough. It tasted divine!

After eating, I decided to do a little exploring outside. There seemed to be many little shops and buildings that I didn't remember seeing last night. I must have just been so tired and forlorn that I hadn't noticed. Still, I could swear that they weren't there. This must be more of the magic that Phil had mentioned. I was amazed and filled with wonder!

Down the street a few blocks, right on the corner stood the most beautiful Museum of Natural History! On the outside were beautiful Ionic columns. As I entered, the room was wide open with the most elegant, tall, Corinthian columns, enhanced with The most intricate Triglyphics carved into the tops of them! I could hardly wait to explore the museum further but was anxious to see what else awaited my discovery on this wonderful little island. I took a mental note to return here though, as I walked out through the heavy, handcarved double doors.

Right next door, was a little nook that I would have missed if I blinked! On closer examination, I saw that it was a bookstore. It was sort of dingy but looked fascinating. There were old coins and stamps besides the books and I knew I could spend a long time rummaging through it. There was an entire section of old Bibles! I love looking through them, imagining who they might have belonged to and how much they must have meant to some of their previous owners.

Well, I think I'll take a stroll down to the beach. It wasn't far. The sand was pink and the water an inviting aquamarine....I could hardly wait to get there. I found a palm tree to sit under and opened a little paperback book that I found in the bookstore...just one of those sappy love stories but I enjoyed getting lost in them. I read as a salty breeze wafted through my very being. Yes....heavenly, indeed.
Sue

2002-02-03T17:45:00.000+10:00

My Entry Into Lemuria
I was suddenly awakened by the sound of water...it sounded like it was rushing into the cabin and as I swung my legs around to sit upright and investigate, I was shocked to discover that I was ankle deep in water! It was pitch dark out and I didn't hear anything going on up on deck. I decided I had better get up there though, and investigate!

To my dismay, Sven was face down at the stern and the schooner was wedged between two huge rocks! After gathering my wits about me, I thought I had better see if I could help Sven. On closer examination I soon discovered that he wasn't injured, but passed out...dead drunk! He must have hit the bottle pretty hard that evening and then decided to set sail, knowing that he didn't have to wait for me because I was already on board.

Well, I couldn't worry about that now...we were taking on more water and I had to think quick and come up with some sort of gameplan! My first thought was to get Sven off the boat. I tried and tried to awaken him, to no avail. Finally, I just dragged him...inch by inch...pull, rest, reposition...pull, rest, reposition...after what seemed like eons, I managed to get him into the rocks. I had spotted a flat one that was directly ahead of us and dragged him onto it. Then I rushed back into the schooner...the water was waist deep now but I chanced it and managed to grab my packages and get out of there before it was too late.

Soaking wet and exhausted, I sat by Sven, wondering what to do next. All that crossed my mind was The Old Man In The Sea for some strange reason. I guess because he was old and his schooner was small, although not anything like that of the Old Man. Still, he had that ruddy, unshaven face that brought them both together in my mind.

The sun began to rise and as daylight started to break, I saw that we were on some sort of a little island. It didn't look like much from here but maybe I should take a look around. Sven hadn't moved a muscle still, and I was exhausted, wet and hungry. I picked up my suitcase and climbed through these rocks. They turned out to be a jette. I followed it to the shoreline, then began walking straight back, towards some trees. As I drew closer I spotted a little dirt road. It didn't appear to be well traveled but was at least a start so I hurried towards it.

I hadn't noticed how much time had passed but suddenly became aware of the rumble in my stomach. I hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast the day before and was famished! Glancing up, I saw that the sun was right at high noon! Had I been walking for that long? There must be someone, somewhere around here!

Just as I said this and was rounding the bend, I could smell something...oooohhh....fresh roasted coffee!! Mmmmmm.....I followed my nose....burritos....and was that black beans and rice? The scents were getting stronger. Ahha! Right over the next ridge there appeared a little Adobe type building with a sign above it. It was weathered and barely audible but I could still make it out. "Soul Food Cafe". Right about now, I wouldn't have cared what type of food it was or how fresh the coffee was. All I knew was that I had finally stumbled upon civilization!

Standing in the doorway was a chubby little man with a moustache. He was balding and wore a chef's apron. From the looks of him, it didn't do him much good as he appeared to be wearing as much flour as he worked with! Still, he was a jolly little man and greeted me with a wonderfully friendly "hello!" I tried my best to smile and greet him back in just as friendly a manner. It didn't quite come out the way I wanted, though, and I suddenly found myself bursting into tears. The little man guided me over to a little table in the corner. He handed me his red paisley hankerchief...the bandana type that you'd expect a cowboy to have. Upon closer examination, he was dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans. He spoke with an Italian accent and his kind mannerism became him very well. I calmed myself down once again, thinking about how kind this gentleman was and suddenly Sven came to mind. Oh, goodness!! I must get someone to help me get back to the schooner to help Sven!

The little moustached man came back with a mug of coffee in his hand. As I thanked him, I told him of my mishap. I told him that I needed to get help for Sven. I said that I was bound for a little island called Lemuria, on my way to Ithaca and asked him where I was. In his same calm, happy way, he told me that Sven and his schooner were fine. Don't worry, my dear...you're on Lemuria now and you'll be alright. He turned with a glint in his eye and I was overcome with a strange sense of calmness. Somehow I trusted him and believed that I truly WOULD be alright.

I began thinking about lunch when suddenly, he was back with a wonderful looking burrito and a dish of beans and rice. Not even asking, he poured me more coffee. He said, here you go Sue, eat up and you'll feel better. Astounded, I asked how he knew my name and what I wanted to eat. He just turned around with that same little glint in his eye and smile on his face and said that it was the magic of the land again assuring me that I was in good hands....
Sue

2002-02-03T17:41:00.000+10:00

Afternoon: Lemuria

I don’t know how long I sat on that bench gazing out at the empty sea. At first I felt a panic, but as my mind settled down to a quiet roar I reached inside myself to find some kind of understanding. In all my journeys I had been alone. Why this time the panic.

A cruise ship docked and some passengers emerged very much in the party mood. If I really wanted to leave I could go up to the captain and tell him of my dilemma, but I did not move. What am I to understand? I thought about the past journeys and how this one was different. It was somehow more intuitive. "Thats it!" Up to now I had controlled my destinations, my adventures and my environment. In this journey I have no control. It is just happening to me.

I slowly returned to this new reality. Now I understand what Phil had meant when he said, "a new Syncronistic path". I believe Jungs theory of syncronicity, that nothing is chance. I found the Soul Food Café completely by chance and once I entered the section of the Muses I felt like I belonged. OK, I seem to remember Phi saying something about once I change my thoughts I would understand. I will let go and let this island happen to me. I will make Lemuria my home.

Once the decision was made I realized how very hungry I was. I grabbed my package and ran up the hill to the café. Phil met me at the door, laughing as he said, "Well that took longer then I expected. There is a sandwich on fresh bread and a salad waiting for you."

Once I finished m sandwich I was ready to address my next problem. Turning to my happy host I said, "Phil, I need a place to stay".

"It is ready for you. Follow me" he said as he picked up a bottle of wine and two wine glasses.

We went outside and entered a door located between his place and a variety store next door. There was a stairway and as we climbed the stairs Phil began to explain. "You will find all you need next door. Just help yourself. As I mentioned, we do not use money on Lemuria but we do repay, with our talents. . She is a beautiful women around your age who moved here centuries ago. I am sure you will like her."

Phil opened a door to a comfortable room much like the room I had in Paris. It had a four poster bed situated between two tall windows with lace curtains that billowed into the room from the breeze. A desk was on one wall and a large armoire for my clothes on the other. Best of all was an overstuffed rocker and footstool in the corner with a reading lamp and sidetable. I knew I would be comfortable here. Phil poured two glasses of wine and we toasted my new beginning in Lemuria and then he silently left. .

As I gazed down at the street below and then beyond to the hillside covered with yellow daisies weaving back and forth in the breezes I knew this was meant to be. Those fields had the same magic as the fields around the old ladies cottage at the Forest Loop. I sat down at my desk, pulled out some paper and started my Lemuria Journal.
from the pen of CroneJane

2002-02-03T17:28:00.000+10:00

A Moment in Lemuria
I stopped beside a round pool of water... it was black and deep, a fishpond. I watched big, red carp swimming, like goldfish, their scales the size of a dime. It was cold there, but not unpleasant. The spot was shaded by wild willows, all soft-leaved and brilliant lime green. The ground was all covered with moss, deep and plush, like a carpet. I heretofore name it my mossy place, and here I will come when I need a bit of solitude. It will be my secret.
Southern Muse