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.