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?

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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.)