Gone Nanowrimo

Dear Readers,

I’ve gone Nanowrimo for the month, there will be no blogging until December.
All the best to you fellow Nanowrimos out there, onward to 50,000 words.
I am glad to be in the company of the Soul Fooders whilst doing this.

June

Toadpoles

One of the many flowers in Unity’s trek in the Garden

Nature Girl had a personality that was full of bravado and mischief. Although she loved all animals, she did not like them upsetting ecosystems they did not belong in. So cats and toads got into a lot of trouble in her domain.

She looked at Unity quizically ‘Who are you?’
‘Unity’
‘Ah… yes, you look like a unity’.

She bounced up and stroked the donkey’s ears.
‘Now you must take care in this garden, as long as you are in in balance with everything you will be okay.’

‘And if not’ ventured Shruti.

Nature Girl looked at Shruiti, ‘Listen to the pond’s song…. and it will tell you.’

She giggled and ran off.

Kiona was curious, ‘So then let’s find the pond and listen to it.’

The women and their three donkey companions, Armful of Tiger Lillies, Ariadne and Absolute Bullet Proof set off through the fields of flowers to find the pond. It was Ariadne that discovered it first. They heard its song…

‘I hate toadpoles,’ the girl with the black pool eyes exclaims.
‘They must be kept away from our pond.’
She says this with a wave of her magic net wand.

‘Toads need to be deposed
From ruling our garden’
So she whispers the toad exploding spell.

She does one of those goofy spoofy dances
And the toads can’t help but laugh
‘What a cheeky girl’
That’s when she hits them with metal of the dettol.

The Queen of the pond with no lotus
Knows that she is on top of these pests
So now it’s time to have some rest.

She can contemplate the new water lillies she will buy
And think about all the fish who will no longer
be bothered by the toadpoles.

(c) June Perkins

Through the portal to Unity’s Garden…

(For reference and orientation to this character and her friends visit Unity Bell’s Cabin)

Unity and her friends stood at the entrance to the next cave. It was an ancient tree with a heart opening. They had a positive feeling about this cave.

Kiona went ahead and they could hear her exclaiming ‘ Oh I cannot believe the garden in here.’ They followed, and Armful of Tiger Lillies was singing the most uplifting tune inside Unity’s head.

‘In the garden of Thy heart plant naught but the rose of love’

Shruti was speechless, and seemed far less anxious than she had before. She was busily identifying all of the plants

‘hibiscus, ginger, roses….’

It did not make sense that so many kinds of flowers could exist so harmoniously in one space, but they did.

Then there were the birds. A bird no bigger than a butterfly flew over Unity’s shoulder. It had a black coloured head, and yellow jacketed body. It was delightful. She put her hand out and it flew over her.

Just as they were settling in they felt the sprinkling of rain – a rain which began to pelt down so they went to seek shelter in the garden.

‘Oh what I would give to always live in a garden like this,’ Unity said aloud.

Shruti sighed, ‘Yes it is just so beautiful the way it rambles, we can stay here awhile can’t we,’

The donkey’s were all delighted, even with the heavy rain. It was like being in a delightful dream.

It was then that they first came across Nature girl.

(to be continued)

String Bag

Image: String Bag

Thanks to Hestia, string bags, prodigal children, jungle spirits and childhood are mixed in my memory cauldron.

Mum used to hang my brothers in a string bag from the door handles. I think she would rock the door back and forth and that was their cradle.

She told a story about a mother who did not pay enough attention to her children. The mother farmed everyday and like all the mothers in the village she took her child in a string bag which she hung from her head.

Sometimes she would keep it on her head whilst she worked – and other times when the sun was high she would hang it from a nearby tree. The women in the village always worked hard. The men would sit around playing cards, and chatting. Occasionally they would go for a hunt and bring back something- maybe a wild pig, a crocodile, or a bird.

They never killed a totem. That was bad luck! The women worked hard and the men went off to the city to work, and sometimes they came back, or they did not because snakes had eaten them.

This mother who hung her child nearby did something mothers are never meant to do- she left her baby hanging from the tree when she went home. She was worried about her man working in the city- and thinking about if he would be eaten by snakes.

She was not thinking about her baby as she walked home. She realised as she came into the village that although her head was heavy with thought it was not heavy with a baby. She had forgotten something. She rushed back to the field where she had been working. Her baby was gone.

All the way back to the village she cried and cried. Her man was not there to help her look for the child, but others helped. They searched the jungle, all the bubus and all the mothers. It was in vain the baby was gone.

The woman did not know what she would say to her man, she even thought it was better he would be eaten by snakes. She cried for many a year until the tears had all dried. Her husband had returned when word came to him of the disappearance of his child. Yet he could not calm the mother, and he took a second wife and left her to her hut and her dry tears.

That was a long time ago. The years passed and one day a young woman came to the village. She was unusual in speech and her green foresty dress. She seemed to come from the world of fairies and spirits. ‘Mother’ she said as she came across the woman who had lost her baby. ‘I have returned and I bring you a gift from the jungle spirits.’
The mother looked at the young woman ‘Do I know you, my child is long gone’

‘Look again mother’ said the young woman, and as she looked into her eyes the woman knew it was indeed her daughter. She took both her hands, looked in the lines of the palm. She looked up into her eyes. ‘My daughter’ and her tears became wet again and they embraced.

She told her mother of the jungle spirits and how they had taught her all about the plants of the jungle and they had sent her home now to teach it to her and to all those women who could now become healers and feed their families even better with their knowledge.

‘You were meant to leave me that day, the jungle spirits were mad with the men for sitting playing cards and getting eaten by snakes in the jungle. They decided they would take me and teach me so here I am.’

The mother sighed, glad to have her daughter home. She cooked her daughter all she had in her hut. The daughter smiled and said ‘Now let us go look at what riches there are in the jungle Mum.’ And off they went leaving all the men to play cards.

My mother had returning children, but not were all so prodigal. Her boys got eaten by the snakes of addiction. She grieves for them even now. Her dry tears do not comfort her.

She forgets about the other baby she raised- the girl who would never wear a grass skirt, and learn language- and left her to go to uni. She will never return. So she sends her two grass skirts from her aunties and offerings, in the hope she will find all the bounty of the jungle.

(c) June Perkins World Citizen Dreaming

Also part of a longer work Island Rock Girl

Leaf for the Past

Leaf for the past

Leaf for the future

Delicate

Living on the branch

Falling to the ground

Learning and growing

From seed to sapling

Leaf girl

Girl of leaves

Grow strong.

(c) June Perkins, images and words all rights reserved

More work on World Citizen Dreaming

Scribble Leaves & Hugging Heritage

Scribble Leaves

What does the writing
On the leaves mean?
Who put it there
Insect, human or Goddess?

Hugging Heritage

Wrap your arms around
the source of your breath.

Wrap your arms around the
green life.

Wrap yourself into the story
of the carving.

(c) June Perkins

World Citizen Dreaming

Writing Territory/Territory Unwritten

Seeding ideas
somewhere in dream earth

they grow into the trees
that my hands touch
grow into the children
from the dream earth
saying give birth to me
into your writing territory

the territory where there
are no borders
only the deep ocean
that you might not be able to breathe
in if you dive too far
or the sky you can’t move in
due to gravity and a lack of wings

Hands, feet what do they do
do you know in the womb
before you walk on the earth
or are they mysteries

I dig for my identity
in the myths, in the stories
in the dream of the earth’s birth

Evolving, into the writer
who dreams of the hands and feet
formed in the clay on the mountain
seeing the story woven in the field

there is no territory you can’t
dream even the ocean deep
or the sky high
flying in the dream sky
I throw up the ashes of grief
For the seed of the story
And I dream….

© June Perkins

World Citizen Dreaming

Guest of the Earth

Thumbelina, By June Perkins

Unity still with her prayer
Thought of the tame mare and brumby
From the heart of the centre
Where the red Earth sings.

And she saw how the earth grew light
At the coming of the dawn
And lived in the small bright eyes
Of her Eternal Love.

She saw while stillness woke
A tai chi movement of the sun
In silent slow motion
In tranquil feeling.

And she heard the old women and the ancient men
Who in solitude stood upon the mountain
And among them Eternal Love
With radiant hands and brilliant feet.

The still people parted around this Love
And many a wise word sung
As ancient man brought Eternal Love- water
And the young girl black bread.

Eternal Love drew her devotion
Towards the ancient beings
Away from young women playing only their own ideas of life
Away from life lived with out knowledge

Unity still with her prayer
Into more spirit worlds swam
Ancient men and women
Grabbed at the strands of her hair.

(c) June Perkins

Pele and Hestia

Pele said to me to say to you
That to her I had to be true
Because I was closer to her land
And you, Hestia, were far away
Far away in another mythology.

But, I said to her she was but one of many
Goddesses of Fire, and Gods of fire
And that all of you were one,

One element, with many stories
And faces just as the flame has many colours
Blue, green, red and yellow.

Flame, the blue flame is where
The soul is, the green flame is where the land is
The red flame is for the heart, the yellow flame
Is for the sun.

The sun is the source of all physical life.
The source of the sun is a creator.
The source of the creator is unknown.

Flame shapes the glass, shapes the land.
The fire is carving things that other things
Struggle to,
Everything is like clay
To fire.

Whoever wields fire wisely has power
They can make swords in forges, or bake
Damper for the masses, they can end their lives
In pyromania or entrance people as
They show they can both swallow and blow
Out the fire.

Pele listened, and laughed,
All the flames came out of her mouth
Until all that was left was my memory
That in my mind you and her were sisters
Sisters in stories that knew you both
Held the power of the flame.

(c) June Perkins

A flower for Hestia.