Sister Starwalker

SisterDreamwalker_111818_4

 

Sister Starwalker

Do not worry if you seem not to dream.
                                                  It is an ominous place in time.

I am with you
         and your dreams will unfold
              and you will be safe
                   and you will know.

Under Moon or dark sky               Star Nations cradle you.
                       They sing your story,
and you hear.

Together we walk
                   and Ancestors come.
They show you the way and you go.

And
if you still do not seem to dream,
rest in me anyway          sweet one rest.

I am your Sister Starwalker
                   and
I will always be.

 

Author’s Note:

I have begun my journey as a Color of Woman In Training 2019 under the guide of Shiloh Sophia and other graduates and wise women from the Intentional Creativity Foundation. A group of Cosmic Cowgirls who ride their paths honoring the feminine in all walks of life.  I am so very full of gratitude to be a part of this group, this circle woven together by the Red Thread.

One of our first assignments in our training is to create our personal Legend-Archetype.

Her name is Sister Starwalker.

Her incarnation is not only to paint her, but to write her Chronicles. The first steps are to write MY incarnation story and begin painting employing the 13 steps of Intentional Creativity.

She is at a resting place right now. Time to listen. Time to write.

She Who Is began her naming process. She speaks who she is and what she does.

She Who Is

She Who is Wildwoman in the Wilderness of Being

She Who Carries the Night

She Who Stands Guard

She Who Honors Ancestral Wisdom

She Who Listens

She Who Illuminates

She Who is Sister Starwalker

And now that she is named and resting in her image and colors, I begin her Chronicles.

Chronicles of Sister Starwalker

One – Incarnation

She stood on her tippy toes, barefoot at the upper point of the crescent Moon. After a deep breath in, she released it, and slid down. If it was a good full release, she would end at the tip of the other side of Moon. It was just for a moment of ecstasy until she slid back to rest in the middle of Moon’s crescent smile.

Moon wasn’t really a crescent, although that is how most people described it in each orbit, thinking the rest of the Moon was gone. Paying little attention to what was really there.

Oh, they missed the most important part. Moon is always there, full and luscious, knowing when to shine brightest and when to dim. Moon is wise in all her years knowing that it takes dark to see stars.

As there she sat in the middle of the crescent, her voice opened into gratitude.

She was young.

It’s not what one on Earth would think of as young. She was sixty-two, and that made her barely a baby among the Star Nations. She had just begun her journey with them.

She felt blessed by the Ancestors to be honored to share her gift, the one who could look at dreams without fear, find their owners, and stand guard as dreams unfolded. But that wasn’t always true when she was on Earth.

But here they named her Sister Starwalker, an honoring of tremendous responsibility she accepted with humility and joy.

Sister Starwalker had other gifts, too. When walking on Earth, the place she chose to be, she was known as the Wildwoman who tramped through the city and found the open spaces and talked to Mother Tree and left gifts of sparkly stones in cracks and crevices for others to find, if they stood in silence long enough to see.

She would sing her own songs as she walked her familiar. Out loud! Yes! And people crossed the street  away from her or paused at the pavilion seeking shade as an excuse not to make eye contact. They were not escaping from the heat of the sun, but from Sister Starwalker’s brilliance.

Silence was her place of being. She learned to settle anywhere to call it to her. And she listened and taught others to do the same. A few understood, but most others were frightened of what they thought was a void.  

Oh, Sister Starwalker wanted to share what she heard in the silence. The whisper of Spirit’s love songs to her. The crows who really did watch and wanted to converse. All the chatterings that can only be deciphered and nuanced when all was still. You see, it wasn’t really silent at all.

Her heartbeat. Yes. In the silence she could hear it beat and as the reverberation spread from her center Light out, she could feel it, hear it entwine with other heartbeats, and together it became one gigantic beat.

Oh, she wanted to tell others what a gift of silence is to calming fears and weaving that red thread to others to finally discover. But most preferred the noise. She understood since it took her a very long time to find her silent place within, to drown out the noise that demanded her attention.

“Silly, little Ego,” she would tell it when it called to her demanding she give her all. “Go take a nap, I have silence to listen to.”

Sister Starwalker had much to learn and, now, had eternity to do it. It was her consecration, something she had searched for and didn’t find until she came to silence.

She had other gifts, too, that helped her in her new quest.

She carried the night with her.

She so loved the dark. When she learned to paint, she discovered it had colors that you couldn’t see until you were quiet and listened for them. There were all shades of blue and grey and green and magenta and oranges and yellows, too. Really! It surprised her the first time she saw them, heard them. And then she could not ever not see them again.

Now that she was at here in silence, she could sit and wait for illumination and then she could hear Ancestors tell their stories to their beloveds. She could shine Moon’s light just where it was needed, like a prism coming through her to others.

On Earth, she was afraid to dream. When she did, her sleep was fitful and she awoke exhausted and sad and angry and scared and, worst of all, unworthy. So she decided to stop dreaming. And she did.

But here, now, she could be brave and stand guard when others were afraid to dream. Sister Starwalker knew the dangers of dreaming. Some, like her Earthly self, were not willing to set aside their fear to hear their stories. But now she learned what she could do.

She grew as a warrior to that which no longer served. She knew how to do that. Now. And even a little bit when she was on Earth.

When she was summoned home, she stepped through the veil and was named. They didn’t even have to tell her. She heard it from deep within and she knew what she was to do.

And she began her night, just like every night…being with Moon, hearing the colors tell their stories, Ancestor whispers, crows sleeping, and listening in the silence to the music of the Universe to discover where she would be needed this night…

Colorful Scars

44787231_10215258241281271_8189971973082710016_n

Mother Tree – Colorful Scars by Lexanne Leonard

 

Mother Tree

There is wisdom in her amaranthine years,
Mother Tree with knotted limbs upturned
to warmth of sun and blessed rain,
all that is needed, a reach to stars in grace.
Her first lesson.

She stands her ground atop a hill,
no other place to be, guardian to any, mother to all.
She provides without clause for we are all connected –
animal, tree, and me.
Lesson number two.

She is champion, her arms for climbers who will dare,
even when they crack her and tumble.
Scars of strength and boundless compassion.
A third lesson from Mother Tree.

Oh, she is far from smooth and frail.
Rough with weather, firm in her being.
In wind and snow she never falters. She bends.
Wisdom worn proudly around her belly,
striations of her years built one upon another.
No need to hide this cicatrix,
her detailed tale of wealth.
In gratitude I see.

She has an altar ascribed by me,
a shallow where an arm once connected.
An open wound where water now runs
like tears during summer warmth
and dried by winter’s chill.
Just enough room for spider’s blessed weave
and my oblation stone, my simple gift to palm unknown.
I’ve learned to relinquish in her joy.

Mother Tree’s scars do not defeat,
they color the universe with compassion.
May her wisdom fill my every day.
May her generous spirit walk with me.
May her chivalrous path inspire.
May her tenacity lead me in my time.
And may I stay the course of gratitude
all along my journey.

 

Author’s Note:

In today’s climate, through the pain of telling our stories and being dismissed, my mentor Shiloh Sophia created a workshop called Claiming Our Colorful Scars. As with all the work we do in Intentional Creativity, we become the cause in the matter moving us forward and healing ourselves along the way. We take our stories and re-imagine them into a new way. This is so with this class. There is no charge and you can access at the above link. It is a powerful way to reclaim your voice and move forward.

This piece will eventually become affirmation cards. The back will have the poem handwritten on it, then cut into cards. Then I will write a word that I want to remember as a reframing of my story through this process. I can also use it as a puzzle to piece back together to heal even more scars!

 

XLjxjH1A43030768_10215101821890884_4376542962767626240_n

 

 

The Fool and The Empress

The Fool and The Empress

PicMonkey play. Original art work from Phantasmagoric Theater Tarot by Graham Cameron

The Fool and The Empress

Ginger spent each Thursday taking salsa lessons.

At first she was her shy old self. So she almost stayed home on the night of her first lesson. But she paid for it and in answer to her father’s voice booming inside of her, Don’t waste your money on foolishness, she decided the best way to be foolish was to take the lesson.

She even bought new shoes.

They weren’t the ones she wanted. They were the acceptable pair, plain, and sturdy. Definitely not foolish.

The crimson ones, the ones she wanted, had slender heels that took her off balance just a bit. They also picked up too much light in their gleaming patent leather and, therefore, too much attention. She felt she wasn’t good enough for them.

So she settled for the black ones with the lower, more chunky heel. They would not draw attention to her. They were proper as the voice of her mother reminded her. And anyway, that was how she would describe herself, not proper but chunky.

Ginger shook off the other familiar voice, her constant companion. Stay at home with the dog. He loves you and doesn’t make fun of you. He won’t laugh when you crunch the toes of your partner.

“Oh, partner!” She whispered to herself as she stepped out the door not shutting it quite all the way. “What if no one wants to be my partner?”

Then, there it was. It was the other voice.

The one that came from a deeper place farther away. It was just a brush of a noticing at first. Recently it seemed to get louder at the most odd times. The first time she heard this voice clearly was the moment she stepped into the crimson dance shoes.

Oh, yessssss. These are the ones.

Ginger shook her head and tried to dismiss it. And almost immediately the other voice clipped a quick – You’ll fall. Don’t be silly. You’re not good enough for those. Those are shoes of an empress, not a fool.

But this night, as she stood ready to turn around and step back into the house, it was as if the brave voice, accompanied by a brisk wind, slammed the door shut without her permission.

Go!

The voice echoed and it carried Ginger in its mistral down the walk toward the dance studio whipping the edges of her long crimson cape. Opening and closing it in one swoop so Ginger could be warm and cold at the very same time.

Ginger didn’t think about the fact that the wind came from inside her house. She didn’t think about the fact that she was moving not on her own accord. She just let go.

It was the first time Ginger felt a release. It was as if her shoulders dropped. She stood straight with her chin up. She could actually breathe more deeply. As the wind swirled down into her lungs and into her gut, she felt strong.

She moved without being in control. So much so, she took a different route to the studio. The one that was faster but ran through the busiest part of the burg. She usually disliked walking through crowds hearing their unspoken comments about her. But tonight, Ginger was literally going with the flow of the wind and even began feeling her heart beat to the sound of a salsa that was calling to her far off in the distance.

Without a hint of time passing, there she was, Ginger with the black shoes and crimson cape standing at another door, another chance to walk away.

This is your choice. Now you must choose.

This time the whispered voice was brilliant in its clarity. Sirius guiding her path, but demanding her to make the choice.  The wind stilled.

Ginger, the girl with the long black hair and crimson cape, stood in what felt like a vacuum. There wasn’t a sound except for the salsa beat faintly, almost nothing, seeping out between the cracks in the old storefront door frame. And the voice began to hum along to the beat, so soft, so gracious, Ginger couldn’t say no.

Ginger watched her arm stretch out from underneath her woolen cape and push the door open. She watched one black shoe step into the room and the rest was easy.

Music whirled around her. Lights gently flickered about. They kept them low, just enough to see, but not too much to find the flaws.

He had lime green pants and a crimson tuxedo jacket. His arms reached out to her. She turned and loosening the clasp, her cape unfolded into his arms.

There she stood in her lime green taffeta dress, a crimson cloth rose pinned to her waist.

Ginger spun back around and there he was sans cape. He reached out once more. This time she took his hand. Shy to meet his eyes, not just yet, she glance down to his feet.

At the end of his lime green pants were crimson patent leather shoes, a perfect match to the ones she would take off work tomorrow to buy the moment the store opened.

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

Oh, I so love the work of Graham Cameron in his Phantasmagoric Theater Tarot.

Our writers met again and this month we again used picks from a mixed deck of an odd assortment of tarot cards. I chose two at random and they were serendipitously both from Cameron’s deck. I used PicMonkey on The Fool for the purpose of my story.

We also chose at random from a list of beginning lines to start our writing. I chose the first one my eyes fell upon on the page. Ginger spent each Thursday taking salsa lessons.

I am so very inspired by Cameron’s delightful work and hope that I am honoring it with mine.

Here are the originals. Go and buy the deck! It’s a delight.

 

 

 

Wheel of Fortune

mrmoon

PicMonkey playing. Original image from the Phantasmagoric Theatre Tarot by Graham Cameron

 

It was the night mr. moon put on his pinstripe suit,
the one with green and magenta lines.
Blue tie
       matching mountains
with three tall trees pointing back to his sky,
                                                                                 mr.moon’s place soon to fly.
Nothing to worry about.

He was ready for this night
                                  even though he was fractionally lit.
His small shot glass held clear libation
                                                                        to assuage the wait.

A bottle was set in front of mr. moon
with H as descriptor
                        scribbled on its side.

She, with her pointed ears and lovely skin, all showing,
                                                                                                      nothing covered,
bestowed a long tall glass in front of mr. moon

and poured

                                                     from bottle H.
Gold elixir shimmered in his waning cresent light.

The all knowing mr. moon was puzzled,
the missing puzzle piece caused his wonder.

What could it be in bottle H poured
by delicate hands of
Faerie Tru? Not to be trusted he knew

and cocktails swirled through his head.
Could it be? A drink he favored?
Jinzu gin,
              aquafaba,
Lemon and ginger…
                                                                                         and she faerie’s favorite
                                                             …coriander shrub.

Yes.
Hanami begins with H.
Coriander gold.

A trickster’s delight.

What more might she append to keep him down,
his feet
          attached
this night to Earth’s rotation.
What should he do?

Exchange the known
                                            for the strange?

The all knowing mr. moon was puzzled,
the missing puzzle piece caused his wonder.

 

Author’s Note:

Tonight at our writer’s group member Lise Nelson, author at Stories From The Hat, brought our prompts. She handed each of us a pile of mis-matched cards from several of her tarot decks. We chose how many ever we wanted and used them however we wanted.

Here are the ones I pulled.

I then wrote down the images that jumped out at me to use in my writing: Wheel of Fortune, New Moon, Half Moon, Full Moon, Soul Mates, Bees, Moon, dice, puzzle piece, butterfly, faeries, snails, snakes.

But it was the moon in the pinstripe jacket that stole my heart.

In Simplicity…

IMG_3334.jpg

Under deep night sky
where Moon persists in her rhythm
shadowed by Earth’s indulgent round
I stand barefoot
a simple act of reclamation

In this candor I reclaim myself

To honor Earth and all her beings,
above, below, and upon

To restore my body
And allow what I need
Releasing that which does not serve

To restate my possessions
In care and release and
Bring in only what is cardinal

To retrieve my beauty
And give my hands to Creation

To rescue my joy
And dance and sing, drum and make love
And sit with others to know all stories

To restore stillness
For rest and truth
For bridsong and voice of the Divine
And cries of those who call for harmony

In simplicity
I reclaim my being
All that I was
All that I am
All that I will be
Collapsing into matter that is me

Two Balloons

2balloons

 

Here come round balloons
Lift away, unsecured,
Tiny hands reach,
not fast enough in rescue

Here come round balloons
Red and yellow hues of summer
Winter skin unaware, flaring
Skyrocketing sunflowers
Petaled fingers sway in hot day breeze

Here come round balloons
Dots of color celebration
Laughter and candles
Presents and cake

Here come round balloons
Gondola swing over cow observers
Silent ascent beond fields of green

Here come round balloons
One for you
One for me
That makes two
String entanglement
Above summer kisses.

Here come round balloons
Losing sight of home,
Sting the average heart
Yearning for travels far away

Here come round balloons
Falling to final sleep
Onto hot tar roads
Tires rolling over and
Over and over again.

 

Author’s Note:

Our writing group met and I brought the prompt. A special thanks to Valerie A. Szarek, poet, energy healer, musician, artist, for the idea. I attended a poetry workshop and revisioned the prompt for my group.

We began with a sentence from a summer poem by Robert Frost, Fireflies In The Garden:

Here come real stars to fill the upper skies…

In a round, we then filled in new words with no connection passing papers on and each person filling in only one blank box with adjectives, nouns, verbs. We ended up with one new sentence, each person’s unique. Mine was:

Here come round balloons to sting the average tires.

We were then to use this sentence as a prompt however it suited us. As always, we could do as we wish. But everyone took the challenge in some way.  What fun! And we laughed heartily, and sighed, and shed a tear. What a wonder and blessing I have in this group.

 

Summer Solstice

SummerSolsticeMe

And there are lights…

That burn from wax of bees
scenting air with honey dreams

Skipping flames flashing summons
calling ancestors to assemblage

Far away glow in dark of night
assuring steps on safety’s rungs

Specks and dots, twinkling winks
unwavering star ones await our restore

But Solstice Light, the most generous
revelers ringed with sainted halos,
delight in dance and loosened laugh,
create and sing in joy inflamed

 

Author’s Note:

Today in PRISM we were given a drawing prompt called Shaping Consciousness. To begin we were to close our eyes and, keeping good humor, draw ourselves and what we feel inside. After several more steps, here I am.

I haven’t stopped smiling since I drew me.

You see, I am not a visual artist in the ways of drawing and painting. But I am required to do so in this course. It employs Intentional Creativity and I am constantly being called out of my comfort zone and in joy.

I couldn’t be in a state of more delight.