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Seeding My Own Dreams

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I took this little seed.  Well, maybe ‘little’ is a misnomer, compared to other seeds.  Comparatively, I am sure this would be considered a large seed.  In my hand, however, it seems so small, much smaller than I am.

I held the seed in my hand and whispered my secrets against its skin.  I told it my dreams, my wishes.  I spoke of my failures, my set-backs.  I told him of my pride and joy, my family.  I whispered tales of forest trails and river treks, of hopeful future plans.

I went out; I bought a special pot for my very special seed.  I painted little designs along the sides of the planter.  I filled it up with premium dirt, taken from my compost bin, ripe with rabbit leavings and trash decomposed into the most fertile earth I could find.  With care, with murmured prayers, I slid the seed in, wrapped it up tight beneath a blanket of dirt.  I added a bit of water, enough to get things incubating.  I left it to its birth.

I didn’t really think all that much about it for a week or two after that.  Of course, I made sure to add water to the mix, once a week, when I watered every other plant in the house, but I didn’t really pay it all that much attention.

Now and then I would catch myself, staring in its direction, my mind racing a million miles away, speeding off on horseback, while in reality I was stuck in my dray city life.  About the tenth or twentieth time I caught myself drifting away, enjoying life in my mind more than in my own body, I started to talk to the seed again.

Once or twice a day, I would sit down, my lips close to the side of the pot, and I would speak from my heart.  Often I would sit there for fifteen or twenty minutes, wishing away, hoping with all my heart, dreaming and praying, knowing there was nothing the little seed could do.  Yet, it made me feel better to speak, to get all my feelings out.

I never thought of what that seed might be enduring, listening to all my endless talk, my vapid chatter.

The seed sprouted overnight, while I was asleep, while I was far from watching.  When I awoke in the morning, it was not a tentative little stalk peeking out of the soil that I saw.  She was a proud tall finger of a plant, reaching up high into the sunlight.  She had six inches of stem and you could see she was still growing.  Her color twisted from an almost white green into a darker yellowy green as she reached up taller.  Indeed, I had to sit and visit with her, to congratulate her, to shower her with love and attention.  This time I spoke of her future, of my dreams for her, of where one day I hoped to plant her, so she could sink her roots into Mother Earth and shoot up into the sky, straight and angular and happy, producing fruits to feed our family, as well as many animal families that there may wander.

Hours later, the first leaf showed, tiny but strong; it slowly unfurled.  By evening, there were three leaves, one larger than the others.  I could see buds forming where new leaves would soon sprout forth.

It was later that night, after I had bid her good night, after I had slid under my own comfortable blankets, as I slipped off out of sight, that I first heard her voice, humming against my ear drums, telling me of her dreams for me, her visions for me.  I smiled, feeling safe, listening to the sage advice of the one who offered my guidance.

I had planted my own prayer tree.  Now it was answering my prayers.  How lucky can this woman be?

Prompt from the SoulFood Alphabet, brought to you by the letter B

Find me at:

http://onthewrongsideofthemirror.wordpress.com/

Written by Tabitha Low

September 30, 2010 at 5:44 pm

Alyce’s Journey Out of the Grove

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DSCF4460started at:

http://www.dailywriting.net/SpottedDogSundae.htm

ended up at:

http://www.dailywriting.net/MadPartyRoom.htm

I am not following any old squirrel.  I don’t care what it does.  I am tired of chasing after animals that talk and walk and carry watches and all sorts of other nonsense.  Oh, I am not saying, oh Alyce dear, keep your feet on the ground, dear.  NO!  Oh no!  I mean to run and fly and dream and swim and do all sorts of things.  I am merely stating the bold, probably brainless fact that say unabashedly—I am not following someone else around on his dreams and journeys any longer.  I am not ignoring my own dreams any longer.  I am not subjugating my self or my desires any more.  I have had more than enough of that.  I am thirty-seven years old.  Yes, thirty-seven.  It is about bloody time I picked my own self up and asked her, what is it that you desire, Alyce dear?  So that is what I am going to do.  Pooh on that silly old squirrel!  we can spike that thing on a stick and set it over the fire to roast and cook!

First things first, I may have been the one to plant this grove, but I did not plant it to contain me.  I built it to give honor to the Goddess.  I designed it to give succor to my bleeding heart in time of need.  To honor the child that moved on without me.  To give myself a place to go, a sanctuary, where I could do nothing at all but sob or dance or scream or sing or any combination thereof, unaffecting and undisturbed by any other outside influence.  This grove indeed is a thing of wild beauty, grown strong, though a might twisted, watered as it has been by the tears of my fears and pains and angers and torments and pleasures and joys. Yet, it has grown, under the light of the moon, and the light of the sun.  This is a place of peace.  I have succeeded there.  Yes.

Though, now, we come to this second thing.  It is a circle, this grove.  There is no beginning and no end.  I created it this way.  Quite specifically.  It is made so that I may fly in or out as I chose.  Yet, here I stand, without my wings.  Somewhere along the line of living other people’s dreams, my wings were clipped and they’ve never grown back in and I just hadn’t taken the time to actually notice until now that maybe that isn’t such a good thing.  The trunks of my blessed trees have grown thick, crowding close to one another.  I am no longer the thin wiry beanpole I was as a child either.  I have curves and lumps and hairs growing where they ought not to be.  I have not kept up with my calling, with my Yoga, so my flexibility may be better than most, but it is nowhere near where it should be.  I think I can wend my way in between this branch and that, climb over here, slink under that.  I think I can make my way into the wood behind and beyond the grove.  Surely, it awaits my travails.

So, yes, it would have been easier to follow that simpering squirrel.  It is always so much easier to follow someone else as he goes about obtaining his desires, rather than fighting and standing strong to attain your own.  I am nothing if not determined.  The fire and flame of a hundred hundred red-heads flows through these veins, even if I show up as a blonde without the latest dye with which I’ve tried to pollute the coloration of my lovely locks.  I do not take no for an answer and I can be both bitter and brutal once I set my mind to things.  I am hard to dissuade.

Sigh.  Why are these things always so hard?  Why can’t I be the princess locked in the tower?  I could grow my hair long enough to use it as a rope to climb down all by myself.  No.  I plant a freaking jungle that I have to crawl through on my belly, with sweat clotting in my eyes and stinging its way down my sides.  Yes, that’s me.  Never the one to take the easy road.  Give me the long dark and scary ride, every time.

Ok.  Now, I am out of my grove.  And, uhm, it’s dark out here.  So, three, where did all that sunlight go?  Hey, where’s my Mother Moon?  Round and glowing in her silver fullness?  I will gladly take the shadows, if only I may catch a glimpse of the returning light to guide me and let me know I am on the right track.  I can’t even see the stars for all the veg clouding and covering things.  It is rather disenchanting.  I can smell the ripe scent of loam and things that grow.  It is not always a pretty smell.  No little twinkle for Alyce here, hey?  Not even the smallest of glows?

Oh, look.  Lightning bugs.  All over the place.  Lying across leaves, piled two and three high in places.  I guess for them I shall look away, out of decency’s sake there.  Nevertheless, they are lights, tiny little butt-shaking lights, but there you go.  Ask and ye shall receive, right?  I shall not look a gift horse in the mouth.  I feel safer now, with this tiny bit of something, strange as that may sound.

Now, to clomp and tromp my way through these woods, right?  Do I make a great deal of noise?  Hoping to frighten predators and prey alike?  Or do I go quiet and meek through the underbrush, praying nothing catches even a mere hint of me?  No.  I am not longer the meek and small.  Humble, I may be.  But tiny and voiceless?  Screw that.  That party left the building eons ago.  Boom, boom, boom, here I come.  Fe fi fo fum, I’m coming to drink you dry, Englishman.  You had better have something more than ale, although water alone would be so fine right now.

As I stalk these woods, meaner than any mountain lion, screeching out my own warrior song as I go, hoping to turn away bears and beasts galore with my raucous song, where should my mind be?  Do I contemplate each vital leaf upon each hungry branch?  Do I reach out, plum my own depths, forcing my way into my darker crevices to pry out the loose bits that have long caused me dread?  Do I dig even deeper to excavate those long forgotten and now forlorn things I once called dreams?  Do I let go of the past, allow it to remain buried, and in many instances allow the wind to carry the ashy remnants far from me in every direction?  Or do I stop and cry to the wind to teach me?  To bring me new things, things I have not thought of, things I had not dreamed possible?  Am I stopping my own progress by wanting the things I want to want…or am I driving myself onward to attain these blessed goals?  Do I avoid the forest for the trees…or are the trees avoiding me in their own lost pursuits?  What does it take to be able to really see around here?  Where do I go to obtain some semblance of clarity?

I decide, as I push and shove and snarl my way through vine and leaf, that I shall think of not even one thing, and see what my monkey mind throws at me.  If the monkey mind throws enough…stuff…my way, surely some of it will stick, right?  If I can get past the smell, to see the diamond buried in the stink, so to speak, then, certainly, I shall have a winner on my hands, won’t I?

Here we are, now.  Where are we?  Four?  Five?  I’ve lost count, what with all this singing and the monkey slinging.  What is it here, the cream rising to the top….

I never really want the Barbie lifestyle.  The husband, the kids, the dog, the white picket fence.  I wanted all those things, yes, except maybe for that white picket fence thing, but not in the way everyone else does.  I never expected to genuinely settle down, to have that sort of peace that having a real family brings.  I also thought the children at my hearth would be brought to me, not had by me.  The man I never expected to stay that long.  Long enough maybe to create a child before moving on.  I have always anticipated and planned to be a single mom.  I don’t think til now I actually realized that.  I meant to have my farm, to have to fight to keep things together, to grow things to survive more than to be ecologically sound, to take in all manner of strays and heal them up and get them ready to live again.

That’s not all together what I want any more.  I still want the children.  I want children of my own.  If others come to me through whatever means, then so be it and blessings come.  If we have the farm, terrific.  If we plant the garden in our backyard in the middle of the city, so long as we can have some chickens and a goat or two, I would be happy and proud.  Well, fine, even without the chickens or goats, I’d be happy and proud.  I want that husband now, the good one, the one that stays and works through things, the one who does not lie or cheat or steal or any of those other things I am so used to when it comes to men.  I want that disconnect from humanity, while still maintaining the vital vibrant edge of things, so that I may share my journey with others, to drag them along and show them the way to set down their chains and let go of all the things they allow to hold them down.  I want to show them how they can stop following every rabbit, squirrel and corn nut that comes their way with a brilliant idea that is nothing like what they honestly want out of things.

Hey, look, isn’t that the sun?  Is it dawn already?  Here I stand now, at the edge of a great cliff, looking down into the depths of a roiling river.  I can’t swim, but, you know what?  I don’t care right now.  I shall launch my frail frame into the air and dive into that swirling massive pool.  I shall learn to shift myself into the ever-regenerating salmon, the one who does not wither and die upon spawning, but the one who continues to swim back year after year after year.  I shall dive down deep, cleanse myself from the sweat and grit and grime of my overland journey, before bursting back to the surface with a renewed sense of…everything.

I look forward now, planning out, with very little detail and only bunches and bunches of hope and desire, the path I shall take from here on out…..look out, Universe, here I come.  I’m playing by my rules now.

written, drawn and painted by Tabitha Kietero

Written by Tabitha Low

August 31, 2009 at 8:47 pm

Restoring The Dig Tree

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digtree1

prompt found at the Dig Tree

I find myself standing amid the debris and destruction that was my dig tree.  I am not disenchanted or downtrodden or sad.  I find that I am feeling strong, happy, hopeful.  I search through the shards and shrapnel of exploded wood with care.  I do not know for certain what it is for which I search, but I am sure I will know it when I see it.  I stand there astounded by how far out the blast area reaches.  Even though the lightning strike had caused a huge contusion, it hadn’t occurred to me that some much could have been thrown so far.  And yet, it obviously had been.  I walk slowly, circling, from left to right, in ever-widening circles, then ever-shrinking circles, over and over again, losing all sense of time and space, going in and going out, as my brain ceases to ponder the whys and wherefores of what happened last time I stood with this tree.   I merely observe and attest to the reality of nothinglessness.

The remainder of the trunk remains attached to the roots seems to be stuck canted half in and half out of the dirt.  I see shriveled blackened roots.  So much of the wood appears to have died long ago, densely choked with noxious black goo, as well as plenty having withered away to tendrils of ash and dust.  However, there is also a lot of healthy growth showing, where there were good times, places where healing continued as best it could under the circumstances.  Even amidst this chaos of death, I can see the tiny fragments of life beading up, demanding their own fighting chance to survive.  I cannot and will not take that from any of them.

I start to think I have spent enough time here, commiserating with the left-overs of the tree.  Apparently, whatever it is I came to find is no longer here.  Or maybe it was the memory alone that I was to gather and hold tight as my own.  I walk away, back towards where I had come from, when I see it, about twelve feet away from the main core of the trunk.  A tiny seedling, gasping with hope and vitality.  My tree does not grow from seed, but from seedling, from an outgrowth from the roots that sends up new shoots at random periodic intervals.  Here I am.  Here is the spark I have been looking for, waiting for, needing to gather up with gracious arms and loving tears, to transplant to another , much safer ground.

With the utmost care and lightest of touches, I clear away the ground, digging around to ensure the safety of the root ball.  The ball of craggly earth that I prise up is nearly three times larger than the sapling itself, but I don’t care.  All I know is I must protect this baby.    I carry it in my arms until I return to my abode, not quite a home, now less than a house since my heart has left it.  I fill a deep wide pot full of the richest soil and plant my tiny tree in the pot, covering it with more fresh dirt and mulch.  I will give it three days to adjust to the changes before I water it, in order to protect the roots that much more, according to the way I was taught by an ancient gardener long ago.

I offer it prayers, send energizing love and sweetest healing powers deep into its roots and its core.  I set crystals around its edges to catch the sun and add that much more healing power and energy to the soil.  I pray over it, weaving ribbons of light around the pot, the trunk and the tiny little leaves that bravely spurn the arena of death we so recently departed.  I know that once I find my Home, I shall dig a wide deep hole and burrow the roots of this tree into the earth there, where I shall nurture and attend to this tree constantly, with all my love and ability.  Where this tree grows shall be my everlasting Home.  Now, in order to protect both this tree and my family, I must look even harder for that home that is meant for us.

drawn and written by Tabitha Kietero

http://knittingjourneymanredux.blogspot.com/
http://onthewrongsideofthemirror.wordpress.com/
http://sapphyresinthesky.wordpress.com

Written by Tabitha Low

August 27, 2009 at 4:43 pm

Sole Print

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Written by Tabitha Low

August 23, 2009 at 12:27 am

Wild Thing

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MirrorWork

I have been in my boudoir, reading and generally lolling about, choosing to reflect and delve into that shadowy world behing the mask.

I confess I had to smile when the Wild Thing met my gaze as I looked in the mirror.

Mirror mirror on the wall
Who is the wildest thing of all?

It is a bit hard to treat this wild thing too seriously.
Actually, it feels like one of my gentler complexes has come out to play.

Heather Blakey – Trains of Thought May 30 2009
Ceremony of the Mirror

Written by Heather Blakey

May 30, 2009 at 12:41 pm

Posted in Miscellaneous

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