The light!

Ah, so it's the stars been calling out your name. Is that the truth now?

Yes, the stars have been shouting to me.

Do you know the nature of their shouting there, Sally gal?

My own dear cousin is among them now and she is filling me with zeal, a sort of unabashed push to keep talking to myself. Being unafraid to talk to all the parts of my own dear self. Like here, here we are the Storyteller and me ... once again, at the bright board of lite ... having conversation.

Yes, it is just us gals having a go at the stuff that is of most import. And, you are putting it to the page where who knows is goin' to read this in the morning, in the light of day.

My thyroid is feeling very good tonight. I was out with the star lights and I felt the tiny butterfly gland there in my throat. She said to me, "I am feeling very good tonight." Simple and clear the voice of that butterfly was. Clear because I would not allow her to be taken from me.

That is truth Sal. You would not have her taken from you. That dear one, the cousin, she is making her way to you and between you the sacred name is doubled ... like a Wood Crafter your grace multiplies. The story criss-crosses the star sky because ...

...Because I have grown into the fullness of my names.

Yes, you have learned the melody of your own true soul, Sally Round. Dark and light ... names are!

What is your name?

Photo credit

You have woken me, 'twas a deep sleep I was having.
The likes of my kin enjoy the darkness ... we bear no fear of the deep.

Is that the thing you believe is my greatest fear then, Storyteller?
The fear of the deep?

Oh, darlin' you were born to muck about in the deep. There is a sort of magnet thread within you, seeks the dark. Has a something to do with that nature of your being what wears many names.

Hmmmm....you are a sharp knife.

(The description sat there as the Storyteller simply blinked her eyes and looked more closely at Sally of the Round Body.)

That knife is meant to shear you as a shepardess ... to pull away the fleece that need be used ... others will handle the wool, and revel in the warmth of your fleece. Who or where it happens, you cannot control that part of t'ings. Can you be parted with it now ... the fleece? That be your next question.

Is there more?

More?

More questions for me.

Well now, the questions back and forward there are plenty. Oh, perhaps the one more that you can sip with that more tea be this one: What is your name, Sally Round? What is it be your more sacred of names that waits until you be wise enough to wear it.

The teller woken

The full moon, it must be the illumination stirred me from the sleep of a story thought complete!

Storyteller, I did not know my restlessness would lead me here. I am afraid, unsure and frankly I'm just warn out from the doing. I came and read again the stories we have woven here, and they did soothe me. How is it I forget?

Is it your living that is worn gal? Are you measuring yourself with that yard stick again, the one that wears the EVERY other ones' life? Ah, Sally with the roving names ... you have come to the right place of course. It is a time of quicksand ... and you were needing the comfort of a Lullabye de Muse. It is here, always here. No need to hesitate. In between that zipper of here and there impatient is often in the lurk. No matter. Come to be with me and tell me why you fret, or better know that there is no fret too small to share.

And, that thing about 'forgetting' ... that is your most valuable of treasures dear one. It is in the forgetting that you make room for your now, your now that is to be tomorrow. What is it worries you Sally Round?

I have made, we have made my dear Sam and me a home that is small. The tiny wheeled home built to create a haven is 'problematic' in this whirl ... this time of Saturn and Neptune testing the reality of right and proper. We have ...

Pause there now, my Sal. Take breath before you lose the sweet nectar of the story. You will need a breath to think your way through and out the other end.

(The storyteller reached across the space between the two and conned, a look toward the round-one's hair.)

Tis your braid. It has become unraveled darlin'. Not a thing to be fretting 'bout, now. Let me see now. Where have I set the comb. Come ... sit close.

(Sal edged nearer, sitting at the bed's edge she felt the warm sheets of the Storyteller's wool bed and saw the well-used comb at the bed-side.)

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.

Dear Kerry

A few days ago I found this comment and set of questions from a reader who seems touched by the telling of the tale here of Sam and Sally. In the mind of a storyteller the world between earth-bound physical reality and the times already past-present- and future blend together. It is from that almost limitless gourd of 'explanations' that I, the storyteller write this letter to answer these questions from Kerry:

"Are Sal's dual soul's her pre-MCS able to be out in the world, working, playing, speaking etc., as well as the part of her longing to still be able to act as that self and is the part of herself that has changed through the learning and experiences that illness and being different bring?

Is her one soulness she feels as she begins the year, is this the peace she is finding with both past and present, or in other words "what is?"

Dear Kerry,

Thank you for the beautifully heartfelt comment and questions you left here. A storyteller's greatest reward come from the heart of listeners who have no fear of believing they too can cradle the many possibilities of words. On the page or in the air, words have the power to create love, understanding or perplexity only when the audience has a heart large enough to embrace or question for clarity. The head has a grand capacity for questioning too, but the head often thinks it has the answers as well. It is the query from the heart that touches a story and the teller, and like good conversation the story bubbles into a beautiful stew.

Now, on to the question of Sal's dual souls. When I wrote the words in the story
"The Sustaining Soul" I began with a bit of knowledge shared through the channel of Sal's true soul now. You see, if you believe in the sustaining soul you would understand that a human must have a soul to be here on The Planet. This knowledge I have about Sal includes the fact that until just a few short months ago Sal lived with not one, but two souls. According to my informant Sal's "Sustaining Soul" the one which has lived one lives with her, was not ready to take on the rigors of physical life on The Planet when Sal was born (prematurely as it happened). Instead, a willing and able salt of the earth soul stepped in to make Sal's birth happen. Much later, at around thirteen years, "The Sustaining Soul" was ready to take its place with Sal. To say the least, our gal has been challenged to balance the two internal directives.

Your perception, and first question relating to Sal's pre-MCS life could indeed be the parallel universe human beings experience when they live with long-term .... hmmm, the word... illness is one, and yet that is insufficient a description. I believe you know a more suitable description and live it daily as part of your reality. "Being different" is yet another phrase that I as a Storyteller have heard too many times to count. The answer I always have, though who listens to an imaginary teller, is "Being different to what!"

The second two-part question you asked is more easily answered. I believe, and it appears Sal and I agree, the answer to that question is: YES. There is a very real and growing sense of peace knowing where the doors to and from the past Just before the start of Autumn of 2008, that Salt of the Earth soul was freed to evolve and be the one and only in another being. Sal now lives with the life purpose of her "Sustaining Soul." Whether those doors led away from a way of being in the world in this lifetime or in a lifetime past, being at peace means Sal can either lock the door from her side throwing the key away forever, or stow that key in a place she chooses re-opening the past when life asks more questions.

I hope this letter offers you some comfort and hope because that is what a storyteller's purpose is, at least that is this storyteller's life purpose. Some answers are easy, some aren't. Mainly though, a story ought to play the heart.
Sweet dreams and many thanks for your courage to ask.

Sincerely yours,
The Storyteller

Light and Deft

Sal's astrology for the next few days ...

Small act of kindness is worth a month of heartlessness. One generous

gesture can make up for a season of selfishness. One precious moment of

understanding can repair a of ignorance. There is though, no need to

be sparing with the currency of compassion. if nobody ever gives you

credit for it, the heart has access to a self-replenishing supply. We get

by on a small amount of sincerity in much the same way as we can learn

to survive on starvation rations. Start liking and being kind to yourself now,

and you will find that the sky is not just offering the chance to enjoy a

brief moment of magic but to commence a process that provides plenty

of future fulfillment. Treasure and protect that which is precious to you...

but don’t covet or cosset it. Trust that if something is truly right, you won’t

lose it, spoil it or miss out on it. Remember that there are two types of

caution. It is fine to sense a potential danger and to do whatever may help to

reduce it. It is bad though, to become anxious and insecure. You can end up

scared of your own shadow; forever attempting to fend off some half imagined

threat. Your current problem is not an emergency. So don’t turn it into one.

There are some things that we should not clutch too tightly, no matter how

much we want to hang on to them. If, for example, we hold in our hands an

egg with a delicate shell or a lovely shape made of malleable clay, the very

act of squeezing hard will destroy what we want to cherish. Admittedly,

then, we can say ’Oh well, that can’t have had much value. Look how easily

it perished’ - but it is better still, if we can be light and deft, to respect and

preserve the integrity of something fragile and precious. Be kind, be generous

and be compassionate. And don t be afraid of anything now.

Thank you, Jonathan