It has never worried or irked me that all people's use herb lore, share herb lore, or tarot, the Jesus, crystal lore etc. I have always acknowledged a lineage of thought line, whether learned, DNA or accessed through spirit.
I have been fasting, turning off monkey mind and have found some interesting starting points, around my journeys through many cultures.
If those seeds of Mauri had not of been planted so many years ago, if those seeds of Lakota, Sioux, had not been planted, if those exercises of Tibet and India had not come together, with the original people's of Cairns, who gave me emu totem, without my European genealogy, I would not of walked the Vietnamese killing fields or been in Cambodia, clearing water ways and releasing confused and hurt children and I would not of recognised the place and time of prophecy.
I would not of had the songs to sing whilst walking the tree of life. I would not of known the rhythm to which my feet and stick should walk the Broad Highway of Dream World and this, united.
I guess this is the colonial danger of a woman of the Love All Tribe. Seeing the necessary boundaries of culture, knowing the mission is to love All people's. Greater, to see each child raised as treasure, knowing their connection to Earth, to Air, to Fire, to the Water, that is life and the Spirit that runs through them All.
Respect for all tribes is the Emu totem.
How I wanted them to be Cassowary eggs, upon my face. Rather close minded and stubborn than, hiding my head in the sand (yes an Ostrich, that's how little I knew). Emu sounded so plain, so boring, Cassowary were so beautiful, deadly.
Little did I know, that the Cassowary is an emu that has given away its bright plumage and overt aggression.
That the Emu flies the night sky, with its feet never leaving the ground.
I joked the paintings were Cassowary eggs and they were hatching on opening my mind. They were and they did. A long time was spent in heart, trying to get that head to expand in equal dimensions, transmuting a lot of fear. How could we do this? Be so presumptuous to believe that every life, from stone to person is sacred. That everything has a story. Everything.
So, not eggs but eyes, it took me a long time to see.
Respect for all tribes, stone tribes, air tribes, people tribes, respect.
If someone breaks your protocol, assume they come from a place of not knowing your ways. Correct, teach, allow that they have their ways too. Songs are made to be shared.
Unique parts of the whole make beautiful harmonies when singing together.
When I look around and see prophecy in action, and am asked, what did you do? I will say I grew a garden, of seed heirloom and those to be.
And I would say, if you want to feed Others, then you must have a garden too.
In peace, strength and love
Am still feeling in and around Ariki Pa, Starlore 2020. My head is still in the place of Other. (Probably a good time to come in for a reading ;) )
I made ceremony with Emu, came back and was gifted with,
"It is ok, just as you do not understand others ways, they do not understand yours. The important thing is to remain open and come from that place of love. Some things are universal. The stone people know."
I often wonder, when entering space, on the marks, that time leaves.
I walked into my office, now with mattress on the floor, as a young one is home. An extra layer or sprinkling of magick, of mermaids and floaty, flying things, with bohemian, hippy accents and flowery soft perfume, greeted me.
Gracefully jumping the mattress, I sent my, bits and bobs box, sailing, the draws closing as it tumbled. A timely reminder yes, but it was the way the layers of sage dust, cat fur, powdered frankincense and myrrh, just for a moment, caught the light and fair folk were there, within vision. As the floaties hit the floor. They became dust. Something to be cleansed, cleaned and cleared. Got rid of, cast off.
Endings of dreams long ago, some fulfilled and others languishing, in the dustpan, with brush, afore the rubbish bag.
The big pieces of our layered lives, we pull out, examine and explore. But the other stuff, the drifting skin cells, the ashes of yesterdays incense, we brush, we blow, we scrape away. Hoping our lives retain a patina, a polish of high sheen, that someday one shall notice, think of and enjoy.
The Devil is in the Details.
If you would like to book a reading you may find me here.
In peace, strength and love.
"And so it was, there came a time. A time that was, and a time that was always before.
The Dream World, the world of battles. The waking world, the realm, where battles, not fought, became real.
Many different the ways of then and now, still the battle truths remain. There were those who thought themselves, stealthy good Warders and Knights of the way, and offering of esteem was granted these beings.
“Let me! Let me fight for you. I will dedicate my life, you will dedicate my upkeep, and the victories shall be ours.” had been the subtle bargain. Knights of the way had no time to plow, all energy on winning within the land of the dreams was spent. The Knights, powerful and the people at peace.
Gratitude and offering the response. For who would not let others fight their battles? Freed from responsibility of self, so much more could be done! The least of which, the offerings of gratitude, were surely /' a pleasure to pay.
Time moved on and the Knights of the way, so involved in their skill, taken care of by all, became lost, to that world of dreams. So well did they battle, behind closed eyes, nothing harmful became real. Within the waking world, peace reigned, joy flourished and the tributes flowed. The skill of the personal dream, lost, in visions of safety.
None new learned the battle skills. The enemy, the reason for dreaming, forgotten.
Yet, within the dream, shadows and lurkers, gathered, their plans laid, learnt and studied long ago, improved upon, evolved. To few were the Knights to intercept, the soft subtle tendrils. As soft as butter, defenses melted before the shadow mass, of darkness, wreathed with mares. To few, were the Dream Warriors, to stem the tide. No new to replace the lost. The awake realm still seeing peace, yet the world of the dream, was changing.
With stealth, grace, deadly rage in check, the Shadow horde creeping, advanced. Snatching, the odd unaware, to study. Tentacles probing, testing the sleeping awake, as they rested, without fear, without protection. The longer the waking slept without ward, the better. Who knew what would happen?
Should these sleepers awake, to the depths, the deceptions, of this dreaming?
Lines were spun, could be’s, should be’s and would be’s, yet, none of the lines were spun true. Long had the dream realm studied, and well did they know their tasks.
To live, one must be present, within the dream and awake and it was for this the shadows had practiced. In the sleeping world of the awake, thoughts of false Knights were planted. The offerings, long forgotten, real reason forlorn, treasure for the Horde to use and plunder, battle tokens.
An inversion had begun, an invasion of twisting ways, so subtle in calling, the wake peoples under gentle (at first) control, became vassals. Enlivening the dreams and plans, which the shadows, had cunningly hidden, in the awaken-eds very midst, their minds. Yes, these beings were awakened, but they were no longer aware.
And so it was, the Shadow Hordes usurped the waken realm, creeping crawling through minds, bridging through sleep, into waking lives. Seeding, breeding, lines of not quite true. Subtle was the advance, softly, softly least the untouched realise. Gently, beguilingly least the bridged, break free. The shadows arrived, made real, manifested.
If only an awake were to take back the dream, from before the Knight, when the awakened realm was aware and faced the battles in the dream, individually, self responsible, where would the realm be?
Ahh, but such dreams are confusing and nonsense.
A tide can not be turned back. Yet just as the wood fuels the fire, it is the charcoal that nourishes the earth. What grows in the bare land beneath the unused fire pit? Well, first come the quickest, then the fittest, seeds of course, you may know them as weeds. Yet, every now and then, we find a tree in this midst. A tree whose roots, reach outside the fireside, new shoots, beneath and through the scorched earth, nurtured and fed by the dying ‘weeds’ the tree shall in turn overgrow. The weeds, are they sacrificial? Or are they giving? fulfilling their nature, to become nature, contained within the tree? Individuals united by place.
I wonder now, who is winning, within this realm, at this moment, the shadows, ever reaching realness? Perhaps, winning is a wrong perception. Perhaps the awake will once again step forth and true battles shall be hosted, where true lore made them be. Within the dream. The place where all bodily forms are equal, as only one energy is worn.
In peace, strength and love,
Simply My Thoughts