Be smart. Give yourself enough time to find evidence and focus. You can find the bullshit, fallacy, and inconsistency in anything. You can dive down the rabbit hole and find all of the roots of lies and the source of all truth. Pandora’s box floods open. You always find what you look for. Seek truth and you will find it. You can handle the truth.
The greatest good can result from the worst situations. Carbon under pressure becomes diamonds.
Reason rules passion. Consult your heart, but allow your mind to make the final decision.
Forgiveness is important. Seek forgiveness from all you may have harmed, deliberately or otherwise. It is not enough to ask forgiveness from God. You must ask forgiveness from your friends, brothers, sisters, parents, coworkers, spouse, etc. Understand that seeking forgiveness from your loved ones is about them being able to move on, and is an act of loving kindness. Repent with a humble heart. Take responsibility for your actions – own up to your mistakes. Vow to yourself to not harm another in the same way ever again. Hold yourself accountable. There is magic in sincerity and desire to change for the better. It is in this that our hearts and minds are changed. When you repent, mean it. Change yourself.
Mind what people do. Mind what people say. Mind what people do and say, and do not discredit either.
Mind over heart over matter. This means, what matters most is Correct Thought. Then Correct Intent. Then Correct Action. Make sure that all of your actions have been first consulted with your mind and heart, and that your mind and heart agree that the action is correct. Head over Heart over Pelvis.
Life is the present. Tomorrow is the future and full of possibility. Learn the lessons from your past and do not repeat it.
Accept and learn to embrace mistakes and failures with humility. Failures teach us valuable lessons and allow us to grow into better humans. Ask yourself, what is this teaching me? How can I be better from this.
If you find a contradiction, this means that you have discovered an inconsistency that has not yet been explained. Listen, ask questions, take notes. It may be that there is information still needed to complete the picture. Keep asking important questions. Keep asking Who, What, Where, When,Why, and How. The truth will present itself on a platter.
Willfully turning aside from the truth is treason to one’s self. Lying to others is treason to others, especially in a relationship. Get to know yourself before trying to get to know someone else. Be honest with yourself. Everyone needs therapy. We’re all broke, even if you think you are not, you are. Especially those that think they are not broke. And ladies and gents, you can’t fix each other – this is what trained professionals are. Please, be kind to one another.
Knowledge can be dangerous, powerful, and useful. Be careful whom you open up to. Gain as much knowledge as you can. Work hard. Don’t cheat. Cheating is a lie!
You can try to destroy those who speak the truth, but you cannot destroy the truth itself.
Agape first always. There are four kinds of love – Storge—empathy bond. Philia—friend bond. Eros—erotic bond. Agape—unconditional “God” love. The greatest of these is Agape, which is the love for all. Storge, Philia and Eros are for specific people. Know the difference and be specific, deliberate, and correct with your intent.
Love yourself first, then love others as you do yourself. Love is not hearts, rainbows, flowers, and worship of the ego. Challenge, motivation, discipline, repentance, forgiveness, structure, firm resolve for correct action. This is Agape.
Be the change you wish to see in the world. This does not mean force change on the world to construct it to how your whims. This means, change yourself into something that will make the world a better place for everyone else. If you are better, the world will be too.
If your mind is open, you can learn from anyone and anything. Even manure can nurture a garden, if applied correctly. Keep this in mind when the shit hits the fan.
“This is going to be a long, cold winter,” I hear the landlord proclaim for the fourth time this morning. If the early snows and howling winds lend any precursor to the impending season, then I must agree wholeheartedly. Usually, when he repeats a statement more than once, it means that I have not yet gotten the gist of the conversation and need to ask more questions. “What makes you think that?” I ask. He talks about the trees, this time. A seventy foot tall tulip tree has been one of the banes of his existence. It’s leaves are stubborn, and the flower pods reluctant to drop. “Maybe if it’s cold enough, the leaves will finally drop,” I reply, and a look of bemused speculation spreads across his smile. He tells me they are going to lock us up one of these days. I say, “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” He laughs.
We’ve awoken to heavy snowfall a half dozen times already. As the ground and air are not quite cold enough for powder, the precipitation is as wet cement. On this morning the new fallen blanket is five inches thick, a luminescence of periwinkle and lavender cut with seams of forest green treelines as patchwork on the landscape. I’m antsy, restless. Literally. After a month of not sleeping more than an hour or two a night, I am without rest. A month of no stimulant other than the occasional Coca-Cola from the fridge in the basement, prescribed by Sir Holmes as a stimulant for the mind to focus and ease my ADHD. A month of eye openers, dilation to the extent that there feels like constant outward pressure on my macula and retina, but without visible change to the pupil or iris. Lucy once told me that I would need more than her help. I think she was correct. What I had needed were clouds. Snowy white clouds, and lots of them.
Squirrel.
Outerwear assembled, the Landlord and I attack the new-fallen slush puppies with giant red and black spoons. The drive and walk are quickly and methodically cleared, and so are two of the neighbors’ and around the mail receptacles. I am sweating now, the 27 degrees feeling more like 72 after the effort. Removing jacket and hat, I step into the back yard to absorb the hillside, slumbering under its downy cover. For all the beauty, there seems to be something missing.
A snowman.
It really is the perfect kind of snow for it, and I’ve no better place to be, so why not? I slide down the hill on my feet. For all of my training I have become quite nimble and fearless, and after a year of learning to glide like Sleeping Beauty down marble staircases this was a slice of cake. Below the leechbed there is a flat spot, perfect for the garden I will plant in the spring, but for now, this becomes a land of creation of another kind. The snow rolling starts with my right hand, and guided by me left. Then, left pushes with right as the guide, turning and watching, keeping all sides evenly rounded. Heavier and rounded it grows, until my body is nearly horizontal, levering the globe from under it’s horizontal axis, using the strength of my thighs and calves and core to set it back to the center of the newly cleared area. Measured with my hips, it is slightly taller. Satisfied that I cannot make a larger one that I could move on my own accord, it is time to start on the midsection. Again, left vs right over left over right, this time more ovoid than spherical. A clearing of thick, flat green blades is emerging as the flakes are rolled together. This torso is particularly heavy, and the Landlord is insistent that I receive much needed help levering it onto the base. We heave, and I measure – my head just barely clears the top of the section. Close enough, I wager. Now, for the head! I quickly make another ball, and set it on top. We pack the sections carefully, ensuring all cracks and crevices are firm. Bounding over to the burn pile, I pull out two ample length branches with forked ends, drag them back to my icy effigy, and snap them to equal length. It seems odd to place them in the typical mid-torso 15 degree above level fashion, and occurs to me that the reason for this is that other snowmen do not have what this one needs to be correct. Shoulders. Strong shoulders. A few large handfuls on each side do the job, and the arms are inserted. With a carrot loaned to us by Annie the horse, and some smooth stones selected for eyes and mouth, I carefully complete the face, and step back three paces to admire our work.
“He’s handsome,” the Landlord says. “Yes,” I agree, but there is so much more beneath the surface that looking into an icy pond will never reflect. I turn around and start marching up the slippery slope. The landlord asks where I am going. I turn, look at him, look at our creation, and reply, “To get my snowsuit”. He laughs. I am not.
Dropping my boots at the door, I bound upstairs to my quarters at La Villa Strangiato. It is a lovely room, appointed with a comfortable bed, small dresser, desk, and as many books as I could ever read. Some of these are ones I would have chosen for myself, others are unique to the Landlord, and the rest could have belonged to Love. Against the side of the bookcase leans my sword bag, my bogu propping it from the side so as not to slip on the smooth wooden floors. I strip down to my underwear, even discarding the bra I disdain. First on is the kimono style kendogi. Once deep indigo and crisp, it has been faded , and softened with three years of use, wash, repeat. I tie the inside, then the outer laces, mentally marking the beginning of a thread come loose that will need repair. Now for the hakama.
Strolling along in my hakama,
cross the street in my hakama,
swinging swords in my hakama,
our hippity hop hop hakama
Sampling Sugarhill in my mind, and reminded that Vanilla Ice would have been crucified for that shit, I step in to the largest pleated bell bottoms known to man or woman. It has always struck me as mildly comical, putting these on,and I can see my little bean rolling her hazel saucer eyes as I showed excitement for it. Straps and voluminous fabric and pleats (girls with little bellies never wear pleated pants), and to learn to tie it correctly and with confidence takes the better part of two years to be consistent with tension, location, and method. I’ve worn and seen petticoats with less grandeur and complexity, and the image of men of all sizes running around in petticoats has me laughing out loud to myself as I look in the mirror. And the laughter fades, as this is actually Japanese formal wear. Worn at weddings, funerals, and other traditional ceremonies, the deep rooted history and meaning of this garment is not one taken lightly.
Setting aside my cornball, I take a deep breath in, expanding my belly, and then let it out slowly to a natural resting place that is neither distended nor held in unnaturally. I learned this trick on my own, after one too many practice cinched up as if in a corset. My societal conditioning and shame filled upbringing had taught me to always suck in my belly to create the slimmest line for a sleek look. I had spent the better part of my life not breathing correctly, for there was always tension in my abdomen. This is part of me that I instinctively cover, and hold in with my arms when I am fatigued or stressed. No wonder I have had constant varying digestive issues, and a hard time processing emotions. During my twice daily meditation, when I breathe into my belly and follow it, it is as if there is a tight band just underneath my diaphragm. I hope that by understanding this, with a change in mindset, and deliberate practice of self-love, this tension will correct itself in time. Noting the distance of the hem from the floor, I set the center pleat fold underneath my navel, and wrap and tie the long himo. Placing the shoe horn duck bill inside of the center of the tie on my back (and not inside of my underwear this time – this is no crack filler), ensuring the koshi-ita is vertical, the shorter himo are tied in a square knot, and ends tucked back under the other straps. The method has always seemed hap-hazard as compared to the complex bow-tie in the Iaido fashion.
Squirrel.
I take a moment in the mirror to assess, smooth, straighten, align. Three years of practice in and out of the dojo has brought an unexpected perspective shift. Once, I felt wide and visible and large and exposed and awkward wearing this combination. Now, Sleek. Proportioned. Elegant. Dignified. I hear Arriga Sensei, or is it Yoda? Size matters not. Wakarimasu. Shomen-ni. Rei.
Facing south, seiza. First left, then right. The discomfort of both knees is from varying sources, but is not enough to complain about, just note. Tare. Do. In my haste, I did not bring tenegui, however a soft cotton pajama top works in a pinch. Men. Kote.
My snowsuit is complete.
Shinnai in hand, minus a piece of the dragonfly tsuba that was lost in transit, I slip my feet into boots, and head back outside. The Landlord is still there, admiring the Snowman. At the crunching of my boots, he turns, and laughs with a full belly as I have not ever heard. It is not a laugh of mocking – more of an awakening buddha. He created this just as much as I had. The realization has tears in his eyes, and not all from laughter.
I kick off my boots. Bare feet on snow is not for the faint of heart or weak minded. Today, all I see is my partner. I correct the stick position on the snowman so that it is facing upwards towards my throat. Issoku itto no maai, I bow, eyes up. I meet tip of shinnai to branch. I am calm, aware.
“Meeeeennnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!”
The snowman collapses straight down, leaving only the lower ball intact. Echo of my kiai is still in the air, and the Landlord’s expression is that of terror, understanding, respect, and obligation. I return to my starting position, bow, eyes up, turn and march back up the hillside. “Get your boots on!” he calls. I laugh, and carry them inside instead. He understands not that I can only feel the cold on my right foot, and I dare not tell him otherwise.
Returning to my quarters, I remove and lay out my now wet snowsuit, kendogi and hakama. Sugarhill stopped singing a while ago, but the beat still plays. Dressed, and now for the weather, I return outside to find the Landlord repairing the snowman. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he turns, his gray blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “It’s okay. That’s enough for today.” He replies with a short nod, and together, we build Frosty back up.
“Not quite as tall.”
“No,” I reply. “We’ve always been the same size.”
The Landlord’s knee is feeling the cold, and I urge him to go inside. Taking a moment by myself, I straighten Frosty’s face, reset his eyes, nose and smile. I plant a small kiss on his forehead, just above his brow line.
Sensei. Rei.
There is a sudden absence of sound. Curtains. Finding beauty. Spring. Gods. Death. Strawberry Jake. Hilt Deep.
Blink.
A new day. A fresh layer of snow refreshes the ground that was cleared. Driveway duties complete, I walk down to visit Frosty. His nose fell off last night, but landed upside-down in the lower ball. I giggle, but quickly straighten myself. “That is undignified, Frosty, you are so much more than that,” putting his carrot back on his face. He looks a little beaten and tired. I kiss him again. doumo arigatou gozaimashita
I decide, he needs a companion. It is lonely out on this hill alone. After an hour of sweating, I roll up another, as tall as myself. His sections are round, and proportionately descending in size. He leans slightly to the left, with arms upraised. Eyes are rounded, smile is wide, carrot firm and fresh; the placement of these gives the impression that his head is tilted up to the sky. The Landlord finishes him off with a flower pot hat.
“That has to be the most perfect snowman I have ever seen in my life,” he declares. “Does he have a name?”
“Yeah. Snow Joe. But, I think I will call him ‘Gratitude’.”
I recall the first Tarot card that I drew personally while sitting in Doshikai, the whereabouts of which are unknown. It is an image of me, split down the middle – half violinist, half kendo player. My art is folk art, soft and feminine looking. The violinist is in a flowing gown, on a stage in front of many velvet lined seats. The Kendo player is on a wooden floor in a dojo. The Page of Wands.
“You, you are so special
You have the talent to make me feel like dirt
And you, you use your talent to dig me under
And cover me with dirt”
“Dirt” – Alice in Chains
I am a bisexual woman. I love men and prefer them, especially for long term relationships, I feel that the yin and yang just work really well. I have met three memorable women in my entire life, and only ever touched two of them. The women that make you quake and tremble in awe. The women that remind you of all the power and mystery of life, who are the embodiment of earth and the big bang. Powerful, magnificent, intelligent, creative, women. I have heard men say that this quaking power happens to them with many women. I wonder if the reverse is true for bisexual men who find those other rare men that make them turn to marmalade.
It was not until recently that I had the courage to really say this out loud. I’ve known it from a young age, however toxic shame kept it covered and buried deep within the bowels of my abdomen. I thought it was a monster, a demon. It kept me up at night. I was told I was dirty, I was worthless, I was sinful. I needed saving. I needed to repent. I was FOUR YEARS OLD. I fed it with food, alcohol, men, work, religion, everything I could to keep it asleep so it would not drag down my “perfect” life. Right. Perfectly miserable is more like it.
I thought that it was not right to have the ability to love or be in a relationship with either one of the sexes. I thought it made me perverse. I thought it made me impure and unholy. How could this be if I was made in the image of God? I think of other people in my life who are honest with themselves and those around, and how I support them. Why did I feel like I would not be supported or loved or accepted for who I am?
I am content with one partner. I am content married. I am content not married. It’s whatever works for me and the partner I am with, based upon a mutually agreed upon arrangement. If I intend to be in a committed relationship, and the agreement is that we are only for each other, then I am very content and happy.
By learning to be true to myself, I can be true with others and help others learn to share about themselves. I find healing in this, to help others heal, and become as beautiful as their creator sees them.
I am a warrior. I was born a warrior.
I have nothing to be ashamed of.
“My pain is self-chosen
At least I believe it to be
I could either drown
Or pull off my skin and swim to shore
Now I can grow a beautiful shell for all to see”
“River of Deceit” – Layne Stayley, Mad Season
Genesis 1:27 – So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.
“We come from the land of the ice and snow
From the midnight sun, where the hot springs flow
The hammer of the gods
We’ll drive our ships to new lands
To fight the horde, and sing and cry
Valhalla, I am coming!”
-Led Zeppelin, Immigrant (Toby’s) Song
“There is no set standard for what makes a warrior. You don’t have to be able to throw people over your shoulder or endure a fifty mile forced march. Being a warrior means living with courage and integrity, facing difficulties with dignity, and finding joy even in sorrow.” -Jennifer Lawler, Dojo Wisdom
“Put the oxygen mask on yourself first, then assist those around you.” -What’s her name, some airline, between somewhere over the rainbow and the dirty water.
Another day in the autumn of the shire. The misty mountains grow thick with with rising fog from the river valley, adding weight to the airy clouds above. Hanging in mid air, they neither move nor shift with the chill breeze on the hillside, giving the backdrop of this heaven slice an otherworldly appearance, as if to appear on a stage, hand-painted on canvas with 103 of its mates. Crisp morning air invigorating my already hyperactive nature, I plunge in headfirst, pulling a knit gray hat over my ears.
Not much raking or stick picking to be done today, I meander my way around the property to the berberis thunbergii. My thoughts return to the day before, high on maple pulling. I had found four woollybear caterpillars. Pyrrharctia isabella, or isabella tiger moth, is a farmer’s friend for predicting the oncoming winter weather. The little worms have 13 segments, either black or brown. One had 5 brown, the others 7 or 8. While there is not specific scientific data supporting the caterpillar’s ability to predict weather, only evidence to support that it reflects how long the former winter was. With the air getting colder by the day, it seems that it might be sooner rather than later that this impending cold season sets upon us for a long one. The landlord is taking measure of this poisonous betty, and I recognize the look of intent – take it out. In a flash, I return from the shed with barrow, shears, branch snips, axe, spade, garden shovel and two pairs of thick leather gloves. He clips, I trim and minimize, until the visible portion of the venomous berry is all but hidden from the road.
Aye, the stump. He looks, a bit dismayed, at the size and scope of this project, and starts with the axe into the center of the core. It’s a root ball, knotted and twisted with years of growth. We make no progress, the axe clunking in the middle of the gnarled knot of venomous wood. I suggest we take a softer route, unearthing it, rather than hacking it to pieces. An eyebrow raises in my direction, and I nod in return. Wrapping my gloved hands around the handle of the agricultural pick-axe, I sink one of the ends into the earth surrounding – it slides in with ease – and I pull. Sink, pull. Sink, pull. Sink, pull.
sinking, pulling, unearthing root
venomous invader of my soil
pervasive penetration, unearth
The song echoing in my ears as through the halls of Darrowdelf, it only stops with a thunk at the thick thread of root shoot. Inside, it is the color of bile, and the scent is worse. I breathe through my mouth to keep breakfast in, and swallow carefully. The contents of my stomach are NOT coming up today, I think, but this root is. I follow each offshoot patiently, careful to not break the vine-like meandering. The landlord is quick to just yank it out and be done and set it into the burn pile. He is of a different mind on the root – the same one that has been cursing the tulip tree to hurry up and drop it’s leaves, and wondering why the pin oak isn’t just following suit, going so far as to shake the branches to test the tactile strength of the petiole. Hatchet, axe, and saw is the answer, but sometimes old oaks need to hang out with the thorny red fruit to learn, and vice versa. I won’t let him hurt himself on this one. He might have allowed it to grow, but he was not the one who planted it here, and he was certainly not the one in denial of it’s existence as it matured. He just saw a red berried plant because that is all he was knew or was allowed to see.
Squirrel.
These roots run in every direction, as do my thoughts at any give moment. With each trowel of this gargantuan anchor, I rock the heart to and fro, discerning from the resistance which way to continue digging. Some roots are smaller and thinner, others are thicker than my thumb and run underneath the driveway, and are forked. This focking bush really wanted to live! I am going to need something with a little more oomph than an axe to get under the pavement. A few roots have snapped in the process, and the landlord has just about had it with my painstaking removal. He does not understand – his age, attention and memory are wearing on him this day. I stand up to stretch my back, and he grabs the root-ball and heaves up. One root left, and it snaps off. I elicit an audible “Fuck” and start digging. This one goes under the Chokeberry nearby, and is wrapped around one of it’s larger roots. The landlord grabs the spade, I tell him no. Let’s not hurt this other plant. Not any more than we have to. I dig, and start to unearth the root, he tells me to stand back, and cuts it with the spade as high up as the vile root goes. The red plant will heal, he says. It has stronger roots. He mentions that there is another stump that was from something similar in the back behind the garage.
Lead me to it, I say.
We haul the barrow full down to the burn pile, and heap it onto the ever growing pile, then back up the hill to this hideous ball, four times the size of the one in front. I can see that he is already weary, but my vigor of pulling out the first has me full of energy for the next. He obliges. This plant on the south side had grown so large, that the wind had blown it clear through the back window of the garage. With the garden spade, I carefully start removing dirt from around this dried stump. With it’s branches long since cut off, this heart was just drying up in the setting autumn sun, but it was nothing that melting snow and spring rains wouldn’t awaken. Dig. Toss. Dig. Toss. Shovelful after shovelful. Something starts screaming, starting from C1 through L4, tense, crushing, pulling, twisting. I grimace, but this is a look some have come to understand as, she’s overdone it again. Fuck, am I stubborn. The Landlord is kind, mentions that he has pretty much had it for one day (he means five or six), and as far as he was concerned it could wait until spring when he could hook up the lawn mower to it with a chain and pull it down the hill. Some ice and snow may just be what is needed to get this now dormant root to wither and shrivel.
I oblige.
The next morning, I awake to two inches of snow covering the landscape. I can barely see the party tree, much less the hillside of the Proudfoots, Hornblowers, Maggots or Hoggs. Thank you, Jesus! The landlord states he is getting too old for this shit, but I giggle and stuff my still broken foot into my shoe. I go outside with sleepy hair to check on the rosebush. The snow crunches softly underfoot. Buds are glistening with ice even in the morning overcast, and the open flowers are frosted in crystals, but still pliant and supple inside, deep dark red as freshly drawn blood. I give the fullest blossom an eskimo kiss, parting the petals with my nose, and it kisses back, velvety and sweet. Ah, you are gorgeous, dear flower. Your scent will fill my sinuses all day. I catch the pile out of the corner of my eye that we left behind the garage. The mound looks like chocolate cake mix covered with icing, but I know better. Nothing more I can do today, except shovel off the walkways and make sure no one slips. That’s okay, I love the cold. I can go outside in below zero temperatures without a jacket, even if the clouds are covering the sun, and still smile and be happy. I think again of the woollybears that I had nestled under leaves and at the bottoms of trees. I hope they are alseep. Next year’s crop will produce nearly all brown bears.
It’s gonna be a doosie. Hold my beer.
“Winter is Coming” – Ned Stark
“And ride with us young bonny lass
With the angels of the night.
Crack wind clatter flesh rein bite
On an out-size unicorn.
Rough-shod winging sky blue flight
On a cold wind to Valhalla.
And join with us please
Valkyrie maidens cry
Above the cold wind to Valhalla.
Breakfast with the gods. Night angels serve
With ice-bound majesty.
Frozen flaking fish raw nerve
In a cup of silver liquid fire.
Moon jet brave beam split ceiling swerve
And light the old Valhalla.
Come join with us please
Valkyrie maidens cry
Above the cold wind to Valhalla.
The heroes rest upon the sighs
Of Thor’s trusty hand maidens.
Midnight lonely whisper cries,
‘We’re getting a bit short on heroes lately.’
Sword snap fright white pale goodbyes
In the desolation of Valhalla.
And join with us please
Valkyrie maidens ride
Empty-handed on the cold wind to Valhalla.”
“The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Mist” – Robert Jordan
Call it recycling, call it born again, believing in past lives, or travelling around the universe with the same group of souls over and over again, unless you are anti-theist and believe it’s a one and done deal, most folks out there believe in the circle of life. Acceptance of one of these belief systems is a coping mechanism of the human mind, as we try to understand the infinite in what to our perspective can only be finite because it is measured. By what, you say? Time. We call it a lifespan. We’re conceived, shot out of a vagina, fed, shit, are shat upon, grow up, shit on others, and we die shitting ourselves. If we are lucky, we find those brief glimmers of life where it isn’t all shit, and there is something to believe in.
Like, the Gargoyle Room.
The Gargoyle Room was the dream child of my Love and I. He wanted a bar, I wanted an event venue. We compromised and got creative. He pointed out the obstacle of remodeling this basement room in an old Masonic Temple, considering the organization we were working for would not release funds (that were available, mind you) for such remedial tasks as modernization and code compliance. We would need to install a three station sink, serve some sort of food, have code compliant ice machines, and the list went on. So I said, well, we can still have an event venue, so let’s run an event every single night of the week. People show, great! If not, no harm done. Want to have a Record Good Time and spin some vinyl? Go for it. Want to show off your talents on stage? We’re open to that. We even had an improv group entitled “Playing on Orange Couches”, named for the repurposed 1960’s burnt orange sofas, loveseats, and chairs that filled the eclectically designed space . We had great music events, open mic, and karaoke. This was a child born out of love and creativity that I sank all of the goodness and kindness and heartfelt will and intent that I ever had. It was borne out of pure intention, for people of the heart of America to have a place that they could go to that was not a skank-a-way, or a red light meet up. This was something for the pure of heart, meant to imbue and inspire the hearts of creatives and lost souls. Even the custom cocktails that were served were meant to honor the Masons who came before, and who had chosen to donate the building to us. The Salina Blue Iced Tea was a legend in and of itself. M&M, I have not forgotten you.
No event had the impact, though, like Paint a Ceiling Tile Night.
When I first met Love he introduced me to the Tarot and Jungian psychology. It was not in the way that you might think, but that story is for him and him only, not for this audience. I learned that the Tarot was not a way of telling someone’s fortune, but rather it was a mirror that we could look at and help us discern the truth about what is on our hearts. The Medieval Scapini deck is rich in symbolism and each card has many things to look at. What I started to realize is that I saw something different on each card every time I looked at it. That depending on the condition of my heart, I might be seeing symbols for life, or arrogance, or innocence, or hunger, of danger or true love, and it could be different every time I looked at the card as to what jumped out at me. Anyone who tells you that they can give you a reading, Love says, is only doing it for entertainment value. What I learned though, is that when he gave a reading, he was really speaking of the symbols that he saw and was projecting his intent.
So, back to the ceiling tiles. I had this idea as I was getting a cat scan for something or other at the hospital. Above me were ceiling tiles and the panels that covered the lights were translucent, with a static cling sky and cloud scene. It was magical to look up, at what could have just as easily been left a harsh florescent bulb, and find this serene peaceful cloud scene. Clouds have always brought me comfort, which is another story for another time. But I remember mentioning this to Love and him thinking it was a great idea. He wanted to start by having some tiles done, so that it would give some inspiration to the room (fake it till you make it works in business), and suggested painting the 21 major Arcana in the tarot deck. We got right down to it, soliciting some help from friends, volunteers, and even the foundation director. One lovely lady traced, some others painted, others made a downright mess. Some obvious takers decided not to be involved. Love painted the Magician. He always fancied himself a wizard and as we were in a palace in the middle of nowhere Kansas, it seemed the perfect choice for him. The director chose the Star. A good friend, The Fool. As these were non-descript vague tarot cards, unless you truly understood the intent behind the card, it was hard to understand from the symbolism what you were choosing – the simplicity in these designs led for creative license, and opportunity to explore and express yourself.
The first one that I chose had a wheel that looked like a ship’s steering wheel, with a pharaoh in the center. Two serpents flanked the wheel on the top and bottom of the card, number 10 in the series. I only recently learned that this card is the Wheel of Fortune. I took special interest in painting this tile, working to create a clear colorful image. I filled in all of the outlined forms, and when satisfied with the result, created a background not on the original card – diamond shaped blue and green tiles, I worked for several days, coming back to it to make sure that each tile had light and balance of color and shading.
The next tile I chose was The Lovers. Again, in a simple non-descript design, a male and female figure, with a tree growing betwixt. This one I painted darkly, black and red and dark blue sky behind. Inside each of the lovers I created a heart, but each heart was surrounded by the black exterior. As for the Tarot, these were the last that I finished, however I painted two others – one, a lollipop and lips, and another a field of varying size circles turned into water droplets, again with the same green and blue motif of the Fortune Wheel. I never got the chance to finish this one. It was painstaking to make, but I wanted to make certain that the final product was the very best I could produced.
Curious this all is as it relates to the tarot, and why I chose the cards that I did, and what the meaning was behind my art. Because, all art has meaning. I remember explaining my view of art to Love early on, with all sincerity. And I quote “To explore one’s creativity is to touch the divine, and to deeply experience the work of another deepens our humanity.” So the lollipop? Lol, a little fun I had on a broomstick, maybe not the most loving kind thing in the world I have done, but it sure was great retribution for Colfax (another story on its way, I promise!), and was an act of empowerment, as I turn men to jelly with a lollipop, with a lollipop, with a lollipop, and without even trying to be seductive. But when I try, they lick their lips in spite of themselves, and cruel women quake and beg for forgiveness and kindness as I hand them their own trash. Some women do it with a banana flavor taffy- whatever, you cannot account for Love’s taste or tact or lack of class or decency or even discretion. At least someone found a conscience there, and is already forgiven a thousandfold.
The second tile of circles partially finished, these are water droplets, reflecting the tiles of the Wheel of Fortune. I have no idea when the tears will stop falling, for they seem to be in endless supply. I have no idea when the loss of Love or who I thought Love was will end. I have no way of knowing if all of these tears are only my own, reflected in this pool. I have no way of knowing even if I was told, for I mind what people do over what they say. I Hope they understand what the last orange actions bespoke of intent. Actions speak louder than words. All we have is time.
I see you.
Glinda was the Good Witch of the North. Glinda was never given a whole lot of credit, but she deserves it. Those Red Ruby Slippers were never magic to begin with. The power was within Dorothy to return home whenever she so chose. But, that’s another story. I was asked early on if I was a good witch or a bad witch. I chose good. I still do. Chaotic positive. Roll the bones. Come out from behind your curtain, Wizard. I see your feet.
“We don’t have to talk. We don’t even have to touch. I can feel your presence in the silence that we share. Nothing changes faster than the speed of love. My heart goes out to you.” -Neil Peart
Matthew 18:21-22
Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times? Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven.
Luke 17:3-4
So watch yourselves. “If your brother or sister sins against you, rebuke them; and if they repent, forgive them.
Even if they sin against you seven times in a day and seven times come back to you saying ‘I repent,’ you must forgive them.
Another morning outside in the beautiful morning air. For having spent so long living inside of a wizard’s tower, breathing in the foul breath of lost souls, moldy coal dirt dust, and the noxious calcium hydroxide exhaled of Indiana limestone, my lungs are easily intoxicated by any breath infused with a decent ratio of oxygen and nitrogen. I assess today’s exercise – cleaning up the flower garden and prepping it for the oncoming snow. The obvious presents itself easily. Layers upon layers of fallen leaves carpet the ground and stick in the hedges. These will need to be carefully raked and removed so as to not cause any living plant damage or promote decay to root systems. The hydrangea has two large bosomous blossoms left, both of which are months past peak. The supporting shoots heavy with decaying foliage, these will have to go as well. There is a large stemmy rose of sharon that is loaded with debris, and another festive autumn rainbow of a flowering bush that could use some TLC and decluttering.
Task at hand, I gather my rake and garden shears, easily found inside of the well organized shed. Looking around, I do not see a garden trowel or hand rake – quite possibly this will not be needed today, but I will have to do some searching later. The wind has picked up a bit, and even Peter Rabbit and his mum are nowhere to be found today. Tucked up behind a set of limb trimmers (note to self) there is a set of older style gardening gloves. What joy! My woolen mittens saved for another day, I don the green and cream colored hand sleeves, soft and supple against my skin.
The raking goes quickly and easily. Most of the ground is bare and easily scratched. There is an overgrown rosebush that will have to wait for a few months while I learn how to tame it. Taking no umbrage with the task, I quickly have several piles to be loaded into the barrow. Most of the uncovered plants I recognize, but some seem out of place. Skinny trunks with maple shaped leaves are interspersed everywhere. In the rosebush. The late hosta. Beside the house. Inside the rainbow mystery plant. I start pulling. The two inside the rosebush slide out of the soft earth easily. These just needed to be tossed. The leaves missing and their trunks bowed. The roots barely held soil, and looked as though they had been just forgotten about. I could tell it was a sapling by the bark pattern, but it had no hold in the strong root system of the rose.
Over at the unicorn shrub, the saplings were easily recognizable with their orange and yellow and brown tipped leaves, in stark contrast to the rainbow of autumn delight. I can’t understand why someone could be so lazy as to not just yank them out. Wrapping the slender stem in a circle around my hand, I pull. It pulls back. I pull, it pulls back again. This one is going to need some work. What a shame there was no trowel in sight in the shed, however a small thin slate caught my eye as I was looking up. What do I need modern tools for? The slate is firm, with a natural slope to quite a sharp edge. Following the line of the sapling, I dig into the dirt, pushing it away from the roots, careful not to cut any prominent ones. The moist soil removes easily, and the unicorn is freed from it’s invader.
Now for the Rose of Sharon. Hybiscus Syriacus, also known as the Korean Rose, is the national flower of South Korea. The rose that is not a rose, but smells just as sweet. The tattoo on my right shoulder sports two of these blossoms, one for each of my children by birth, but in later years it came to represent the embodiment of motherhood, as more children entered my life. The main stem of this plant, I am told, was cut out years ago. It was dying and diseased. Remaining are 30-40 shoots from the root of the plant. While I could see one maple clearly, its roots were disguised among the Japanese maple and birch leaves that had become entangled at the root of the clustered canes. A garden rake would be just the thing. Hm, I have already improvised once. WWJTD? (What would James Townsend do?) Sticks! Thanks to the yard full of trees, I had already spent days picking up sticks and weighing down the insulating leaves on the flower bed to protect the spring bulbs. A familiar “Y” shaped one caught my eye (I can’t tell you why), and stick in the hand I begin extricating the leaves from the cluster.
As the foliage comes out, more maples reveal themselves. Some with green leaves, some with orange and red, five in total. These are deeply rooted, and the soil packed tightly. No amount of force is going to pull these bad boys out. These are going to have to be dug, and rocked, and dug, and poked until the depth of the taproot is unearthed, and the off shoots have also been freed. If you leave a piece of the root in because there is haste and force in the removal, it is bound to grow back, with a vengeance and little remorse. I carefully remove each tree fully, carving out the ends and digging around to ensure that no root had not been unearthed. The trees toss into the barrow along with the leaves and other random garden debris. I hope this rose is finished with the soil sharing. Pushing the soil back in place, I set to work on the side of the house.
The red berry tree. Ah! These are a sight in autumn. Sometimes mistaken for the burning bush, the Red Chokeberry has a brilliant fiery blaze in October. The tiny red berries, while edible, are not recommended for eating because of what the name implies. As I start raking around, I find a solid maple plant, growing alongside it. It seems to be more than a season in age, possibly two. I feel poorly about pulling it up too hastily. This maple seemed to be growing in harmony with the chokeberry. It was obvious that in time with no change, neither would survive given the soil nutrient requirements of either plant and the sunlight requirements of the maple. Both would perish if no action was taken. As this was the end of the season and the clouds were threatening snowfall, I did not have time nor proper tools nor weather to transplant this beauty of a timber. This tree was still young, and and heavy snowfall would most likely crush the plant. It was safe where it was for the moment. Both plants deserved the lives they had started, and looked splendid together – they just needed a little space. It would be easier to transplant the maple come spring with warmer moist soil and a proper place for it to absorb a full day’s sun rays. Mental note taken, I continue raking leaves from underneath.
A snag in my ski jacket catches my attention. I look over my shoulder to see what initially looks just like a chokeberry. It has the same colored leaves, the same bright shiny red berry. I bend back one of the barbed vines, thankful for these protective gloves that cover my hands and wrists. These berries though had a different more oblong shape, and the entire plant was covered by hideous thick thorns. Berberis thunbergii often is confused with the chokeberry plant, and when placed together one can nearly not tell them apart. In fact, it could hide in plain sight and would not be revealed as the poisonous pest that it is. This species is considered to be somewhat invasive, particularly in Eastern North America. “Doh! Who the hell put this here?” I ponder aloud. “Probably someone who just could not tell the difference between an edible decorative shrub and a poisonous, barbed one. Men. Sigh.” I answer myself. The removal of this long overgrown thug is beyond my ability to ensure it does not grow back. I am satisfied that when the time is right the responsible party will take care of this when serious digging can ensue. So, I let it go, and finish raking the tiny and lovely red and yellow leaves shed by both. All debris collected in the barrow, I wheel it down to the burn pile.
I’m looking forward to setting this pyre ablaze.
-skuldthevalkyrie
Matthew 5:29-30
“If, now, your right eye is making you stumble, tear it out and throw it away from you. For it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to be pitched into fire.Also, if your right hand is making you stumble, cut it off and throw it away from you. For it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to land in fire.” -Jesus Christ
The Purpose of Kendo
To mold the mind and body.
To cultivate a vigorous spirit
And through correct and rigid training,
To strive for improvement in the art of Kendo.
To hold in esteem human courtesy and honor.
To associate with others with sincerity.
And to forever pursue the cultivation of oneself.
Thus will one be able:
To love one’s country and society;
To contribute to the development of culture;
And to promote peace and prosperity among all peoples.
-Finish the first cut before moving on to the next. – John Pope
It has been several years since my feet have trod upon the soil of the shire. The fragrant earth and evergreen blades of grass soften and absorb my elephant stomp, slowing an artificially quickened pace. Breathe, says the Sliph. Sweet and melancholy scent of roses fills my sinuses as a bury my face in the blossoms of a nearby bush. There are many buds left to bloom, as the first hard frost has yet to cast its glistening blanket across the countryside. Looking more closely, I see there is more to it that first meets the eye or nose. Leaves be-speckled with mold, long since broken canes dried and shriveled, brittle thorns and abandoned webs constrict the life flow from root to blossom. I sneeze with vigor, as the blossoms had initially covered the stench of decay.
But hope remains, as the strongest part of the bush has as sturdy base, with loads of healthy leaves and buds galore, and the fertile ground shows evidence of a complex and solid root system. There is still beauty, even to a pair of hips at the end of a thorny cane.
Decision made, I enter the garden shed, up the small wooden ramp where underneath a family of hares nestles cozily, protected from the cool autumn air. The plethora of gardening implements lovingly and carefully arranged, it is simple to find the correct tool for the task ahead. Humidity had taken its toll on the pair of garden shears. The rust on the blade is as bubbly as a bath, and it crunches when I press the handles together. Upon inspection, the fulcrum appears sturdy and in good order, although a small squeak reveals the need for lubrication. I head back inside for some implements to correct the damage to the tool – sandpaper, an old towel, joint lubricant, and a small chisel, just in case. I lay the tools down neatly on the bench in the garage. Time to start chipping.
With the amount of rust, I know this must be slow careful work. If I am to rescue this plant, I cannot risk any oxidation seeping into the phloem or tearing the xylem. The chisel seems to harsh to use directly on the cutting surface, so instead I knock the side of the shears with the flat side to loosen up the rust. Next is the sandpaper, 100 grit. 120. 150. I work the paper in each coarseness progression on the left and right arm of the scissor, pushing in one direction, towards the point, one side at a time. The old corroded metal sloughs off slowly and easily, revealing the sheen of a well crafted simple machine. When the last bit of zinc oxide has vanished, I set about wrapping each blade with the soft worn cloth, tacking off all traces of dust. The lubricant pumps in a quick burst, and with scissoring motion I work it into the thread of the joint, loosening and silencing the squeak. Wiping away the traces of oil, I set to my obligation.
The first cuts are always the most obvious. Dried up cane. Snip. Withered leaves. Snip. Remnants of late summer’s husks. Snip. Mold. Cobweb. Pest food. Snip. Snip. Snip. I stand back, breathe, and take another good look. There are newer stems that are even more sickly. Though a few petals still bear their fluorescent fuscia, the bud base has already blackened. Confused, I trace down the cane with my eyes and forefinger, realizing the thorns had also dried up. These points were once olive to russet, firm and sharp as any. The rosebush, in ts effort to share all off the possible beauty and life energy had let its own defenses down, sending the vitality to the blossom, only to watch it quickly die. “I’m sorry this hurts,” I whisper, trace the damage back only as far as the nearest bud eye, and cut just above it, trimming as little off there as was needed. This was yet a stem that could grow healthy and strong, and I wanted to give it all of the opportunity it could to blossom again in the next season.
With the major cutting finished, I took a length of strong cord, and with the strongest and thickest canes, I wrap it around the crown, supporting one shoot that had bent away from the rest of the plant for only that it was completely unsupported. Despite the pile of greenery and petals that fell into my garden tray, the plant seemed to stand taller, unburdened by the weight of untimely death and uncured disease. With time and careful consideration, this plant can bear the most blossoms of any in the garden, but it must be regularly tended and not left to grow wild, it must receive adequate light and not be covered or hidden, nor left wanting for nourishment or moisture. One more time, I planted my nose inside of an open blossom, inhaled slowly with my belly, and tested for the scent of any malady not seen to the naked eye. All I breathe in is life. Wiping each side of the shears, exhaling, I bring the trimmings off to be burned. In the pyre, they will be remembered not for their disease, but of how the removal of which will ensure a healthier plant overall and new life and blossoms come spring and for many years to come.
My steps now soft, I slip back to the garage, gathering the sandpaper, towel, oil and chisel, and bring them back to their proper place of storage. In the shed, the blade is placed back in its proper place. I close my eyes, just for a moment, thanking it for its help in the deadly cuts that will result in new life. Whispering good evening, I close the doors quietly and bow, walking back to the house with the gentle content of good, hard work.
A Walk In Neverland 