And now, the story's told

Sally

So, you found something that took the pressure off you? Girl you need things like that.

Mokihana

I know, or maybe I just don't believe it by myself, that's why I conjured you up and got the storyteller involved.

Storyteller

Hay, you don't need an excuse to make things up when it's just too much for your own dear self now girls. The point of being is not to make it as rough it can possibly get. Destiny made you 'born' with the stars at your back and the moon in your pocket, but the sun's always in your heart. So, Mokihana what is it you found to take the pressure off?

Mokihana

Here's the code. Maybe someone will be in need of it.

"Once upon a time" ... "

TRANSLATION: This is a time that makes no sense to me. If it were somebody else's some time, I might be less contorted. Let me see if I can get to a some place where my heart feels safe, and my mind keen. There is great power and grand memories to be had when a person starts to write her own fairy tale. It is not a new thing and is probably the oldest of remedies for a soul that has become lost.

The story of Sam and Sally began at a sometime that made no sense to me. I was living a nightmare in full light, in a place once my home of origin. No one and no place fit into the dealings of my life with my dear man Pete. It must have been that our realities were stolen or mislaid.

Environmental chaos and the rules that govern the making of poisons, toxins and altered realities/foods/product create a fairy tale of wickedness and dark forces. Inconvenient truth such as illness cured when all those rules and poison-makings change or stop are the stuff of classic tales.

Sam and Sally had a tale to be told and someone needed to narrate the ups, downs, over and throughs for the two old dears. It was essential to have the story told, lest the courage and transformation shrivel like last years apples unpicked.

The blog Sam and Sally is pau ... done for now. It will be part of a new transformation to come very soon. I hope this blog has given you hope, educated you perhaps, inspired you to tell your fairy tale. It matters that the story is told. Tell yours.

Thank you Kay,Thank you Clarissa Pinkola Estees, Thank you Aunty Lily.

Aloha, Mokihana

Braiding the tale

Upon one head
The plait does lay
Over under,
Over under,
One hank at a time.

Upon one head
The tale is wove
Over under,
Over under,
Whose voice is shown?

Upon one head
A voice still timid
Calls for a hand
Over under,
Over under,
The words grow in timber.

Upon one head
The plait does lay
The tale woven
Hand to finger
Finger to Heart
Forged like silver.

Braid the tale, teller.
Braid the tale.

Sal has begun to wear her tale upon her head, like a pot turned upside down she is less timid about bringing the rhymes and poetry of her journey to the front. Have you noticed? As all Storytellers know in their bones there is always a time to turn the braiding of the tale over ... and I suspect, my purposes have been served. "She who watches" is a powerful and genuinely kind goddess of the tale, a part of the grand scheme of things don't you know. Never wonder whether you are daft should you feel a splitting in your seams dear girlie, dear boy. The "She or He who watches" is a precious part of the plait that is your own braided tale. Consider the source from which you came? Is it not a wondrous mystery the how and when that makes the story yours?

The wisdom of ages passes like hair handling, and braiding. If you will braid with three parts first decide that there will be equal hanks, or not. It's your braid, your brand of wisdom, your story you'll wear on your head. Over under, over under. Ah, some of you listening are asking me questions. And that one would be? "If I haven't the hair enough to be braiding, is there no use me listening to this story?" Well now, that would be a good question ... if braiding plaits were the only reason for the story. Stay with me for a few lines more and hear whether something might just be worth your staying. Hmmm...to the plaits again now. "Over under" with each part of your story, each part of your own true story there is always something that has taken you "over ..." and then another or perhaps that very same "something" takes you "under."

The plait, the braid, the story is done when you come to the end of the hair ... bound tight at the end the plait is finished. Set upon your head, or hung along your back it's your braid. Time will unravel it, and then you get to plait again. New story, same story. That's the wisdom of telling and braiding. Same hair, same story. Hair changes, different story.

I have loved the telling and will love it more again. Did you find it worth the stay? I hope so. Telling is such fun.

She who watches

I have many names, one of them is Storyteller. Another name I answer to is "She who watches." I have been quietly watching Sam and Sally for a few weeks now, noticing the changes in the look of their wee home, sensing the energy of our two dears, listening closely to the wheels of their minds as they edge closer to the next junction. Sal's hair has grow longer and more silvery. Strands of her hair collect on blankets, gather dust on the floor and clump in the lint trap of the dryer. "More on the floor, less to brush," Sal has convinced herself the dropping hair is not a problem. In fact, this hair on the floor thing has happened for decades and as her hair grows longer the hair falls more. It really is not a problem. But what is happening is the junction of time narrows. The stars are applying greater pressure on the gal, and Sam as well. Saturn for Sal is causing her to be even more cautious and edgy...tightening up that scalp, popping hairs out from an overly watchful skull. Sam's bones carry time and effort heavily. So much of his attention has gone into making things work outside himself. There is that hard shell of the Cancer protecting him as it has for nearly sixty years. Inside, the long lean man is wearing thinner. He will need attending to, and he knows this. He waits his turn. He leaves a share of himself for the birds, the kitty and Sal. The journey to this point has been hard work. It is not over, there is more. Yet, they are stronger and wiser for it even if they are not yet able to know it. The work is good, hard work and that is what needs to be done to build something of value.

Earth is an interesting orb planted with memories of universes most of her inhabitants forget before they are five fingers old. Generations have walked so far from the light, mesmerized by the glitter of the pretty stack of gold, the pretty house, the perfect weed-free green lawn, the many cars, the speed of talk. No matter though, there is an Arabic saying I heard just the other day. It sounded wise and parable-like and yet it suit the contemporary scheme of things. As I recall it went, "My father rode a camel, I drive a car, my son flies an airplane, his son will ride a camel." When I look at the journey dear Sal and her Sam have taken and continue to create, I witness the commitment Sal made to keep walking toward the light. I know, I know. The gal was born on an island where light and sun is present and bright equal shares in most days. And yet, since her early second decade this earth woman has trekked over most of those islands and then boarded planes to seek clarification in a place where it rains a lot, and sunshine is parsed out with economy. The Sun is important and yet it is a lone if not for the Moon, the planets and all the other starts. The light at night is as important and in Sal's case, more important. She is one of those who has keen memory for Moon light and the journey is about clambering to be with the sisters of the stars.

Sally Round has said her prayers, and the Gods heard her. The woman is on pilgrimage, aware at a very deep level the price she pays for listening to the light voice. There will be silence and separation. The experiences of the Poisonous Apple Illness serve as daily markers for Sensitives like Sam and Sal. The Earth has called upon the Sensitives to keep track of all the choices that harm. Many will and are not sure why or how these two old dears do what they do. They do it because they promised they would. The wee home they build on wheels is a work of art. The the work is part of the promise. It is not just beautiful, it is also oddly .... unexpected. The subdued color of their roof, a choice so extreme from the original showy copper is just one example of the real power in charge. The roof will function. It is not junk and it is not funk, and is not flasy! The roof will endure. There are sunny days coming, one of them is here today. The icy night left a coat of ice on the new roof a blessing from the North winds to remind the new home that it is part of this climate. Dreams of a new kind of life are not controlled by logical decisions alone. When you have invoked the attention of the All, you have asked for partnership and they will be involved.

I am called many names. Storyteller is one of them. She who watches is another name to which I answer, and on a day when the waiting ceases and the story births I am called Satisfied. Then there is Sally, another good name. I am called many names.

Supporting friends

Some of my best storyteller friends are graffiti masters. When the two old dears Sam and Sally still lived in the cottage in Manoa Valley I noticed how intrigued they were by the bold and hood-like tags that showed up on broad walls and freeway over-passes. After awhile of course, the signatures of taggers become inimitable easily recognized if not identified at least AKA Named. Here in Seattle we see the masters have become almost legitimate ... or are those urban murals now, the rogue embraced?

Last night I listened to Sal speak of the world of bloggers as 'graffiti artists of the universe' tagging the sphere of the internet millions of fingers take to the keyboard and lay a door open with their opinion. Here I am, at the keyboard composing my newest graffiti for the universe. Telling a story my Sam and Sal are not quite able to do ... at least in this voice. Where this tale touches another, the storyteller can never know. In the world of art, and throughout the Halls of the Muses, approval, love, and support is truly, as changeable as weather.

Human beings thrive on attention, and the Muses carry magnets for just that purpose. Art was created to love all versions, all opinions. Do you suppose some humans have dropped their magnets and can not attract differing versions of art? I am full of questions today because I support the Art as a magnet of many opinions. Storytellers listen to it all, see more than most, and look for ways to keep more doors open than ways to close them.

The Universe has her ways though, and even with the collection of Storytellers from all four directions, our support isn't always enough ... The cyberspace universe is still such a baby and when a call for help is heard, Storytellers come like any good Village Aunty would. This one's for Elsa P. a teller who has the stars at her back. Supporting you in public dear, as promised. For all its worth ... WE LINK TO YOU.

Live on! The Storyteller

*Clipart Credit: Woman www.designedtoat.com

Dear Sal ... A Valentine

Clip Art Credit www.designedtoat.com

My dear Sal,

Ah how delighted I am to see the blossoming of your life these past months. My vantage point is such a privileged one you know, I observe the ebb and flow of your journey, record the bits and bundles when you have scant reserve to explain it. I call on the Gallery of Muses that hold store of lives like yours, asking them for the images and words that might fill your gaps. They are always available to you and to me. Sometimes you are caught in a kink or illusion of deprivation and I wince because I know you are feeling pain. A storyteller cannot take pain away, I am not without feelings myself, it is simply not my role to remove YOUR experiences. What I have witnessed in the weeks ending last year, and the time since the new year began is a gathering of your angels. They are in your life so much more, dear gal. Of course, you sense them and I hear your conversations and your increasing cheer.

The human body is a vessel of incredible treasure. Yours is one of those the gods invested with the memory of heaven in the senses. The Planet is a mirror of the memory of heaven, and like you she has the ability and resources to clean and clear herself. What I have seen in you and in others like you who have cellular memory of heaven in Earth Bodies is how you either complement or react to the seasons of change this planet is experiencing. As Earth clears or clogs I witness your body do similarly. The Earth tires, you tire. The watching is not easy ... talk about wincing ! Human kind has turned their role as part of ALL and created illusions of territory and control over others. That illusion is being recycled ... all matter remains, it transforms from one state to the other.

Dear one, I see the transformation in you as your soul being expands, clears and becomes infant, new and shining. Your life on Earth is truly an aging in reverse journey as was written in your Star Chart. To be with you as you age in reverse is a Storyteller's version of 'justice.' Ah, the appetite for words ... 'justice', 'just desserts', reward, abundance. I write to you my cherished Sal in the manner of one of your favorite storytellers Jane Austin to reinforce and affirm your appreciation for a well-written, perfectly timed letter. Open and read this, knowing you are loved in every imaginable and unimaginable ways.

Love you always,

Your Storyteller

Do you have a poem loving you?

The muse is in the air, and by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin it may not be too late to write a love poem for this wonderful project. The deadline is coming right up, (sorry this storyteller just found out about it this very hour). It's a beautiful thing though, so if you've a poem in your heart wanting to be penned ... let it fly. Here are the submission and project details from WRITING ROADS.

This is exciting, I am a quiver .......

Tinkerbelle

There is a very fine line runs between those who believe, and those who have forgotten how. When I watch our dear friends in the flicker of light from that old television as they watch a favorite old film, I see the line disappear. The old dears become the smooth cheeked young ones with vision for the impossible. All things possible and wonderful color their faces as I see the belief light up their eyes. It's a course world that counts on their fingers the numbers of children and their parents who belief relentlessly ... ah, can you blame the forgetful though such a complex world this now.

It is a rotten thing left untended for far too long, this poison apple disease that has tainted the truth of humans place in the world. They are after all is said, and done, part fairy, part stardust, part dirt and large part imagination. You see the Tribe of Storytellers has passed the gene of believing through the telling, and somehow in the rush to grow up and civilize, industrialize and capitalize the human slowly and steadily diluted that believing gene. Believing in what? Believing in What? Why believing of course in the magic of unimaginable joy simply for the fun of it. The joy of being mundanely alive was rushed to grow bigger, better, richer, cleaner, sweeter than just human-smelling until with the tick of a decade a baby girl could no longer recognize her daddy because he know longer smelled like daddy. We Storytellers though are a hail and hearty stock and we will tell a story as long as we know there is one set of ears who listen.

In the glow of that television light I watched dear Sal's round face drip with tears as she absorbed the masterful telling of a tale of believing. It is one of the simple and available delights that massages the gene in her. Once a long time ago a man, a member of the Storytellers Tribe wrote a story of a boy who believed he would remain a boy forever. Some have said Peter Pan is a man who never grew up. They are part of the folk who have forgotten. Tinkerbelle on the other hand is a tiny bit of fairy dust that waits for folk like that, ready she is to blow the memory back into them so the child in all of them human beings is restored to its magic throne right here on The Planet. Peter Pan is a boy who never stopped believing.