Happy New Year

Wishing Everyone the Best and Happiest New Year.

cyn’s room at riversleigh

With a combination of trepidation and excitement, I entered my new room at Riversleigh manor.  Excitement because this feels like the beginning of a new, wonderful adventure….trepidation because…..well…I will explain that anon.  I turn the key in the lock and hear the sliding metal click and clank into place.  I turn the knob slowly, cautiously, and step into my room….nay not just my room but my future. Perhaps that is where some of trepidation comes from.  My future – fear of the unknown.   As I walked into the room, I realized I had closed my eyes and held my breath.  Opening my eyes just a slit and peering through my lashes, I exhaled sharply.  It was an exhale of deep relief and it was then that I realized the biggest reason for my previous worries about my room.  I had this vision of the Manor house.  I pictured elegant, sumptuous rooms, lavish, elaborate décor….silks, velvets, huge imposing furniture….all of that which comes to mind when you hear the word Manor.  In particular, with the description I had been given of the beautiful Lady Riversleigh, I was sure that she and her surroundings would be lush and richly attired.  To my great relief, my room was none of those.    Don’t get me wrong.  It is a beautiful room.  In fact, I could picture no more beautiful room than this but it is tastefully decorated in a simple manner.  The décor hints of a time gone by. It speaks of early pioneer days and yet hints at a past that was somewhat more elegant.  I got the picture of someone leaving a well-to-do home in
Europe, bringing with them their furniture and belongings to settle in
Canada and begin a new life as an early pioneer.  The furnishings were simple wooden structures but boasted small intricate details common to Victorian times.  The dresser and wash stand had marble tops on them and over the mirrors, there were carved details of swirls, curves, and a few carefully placed small flowers.  The drawer pulls also boasted the same small intricacies on them looking much like brass medallions with angels’ wings attached.  The bed, matching the other furniture, had a very high head board to it, reaching right up to the ceiling and also sporting the same carved detail as the rest of the furniture.   The bed was made with piles of pillows and  handmade quilts, faded with time, but beautiful pieces of art nonetheless.  On the washstand there was a pitcher and bowl set handpainted with huge glorious cabbage roses and green leafy accents and had next to them, a small stack of bath linens.  The linens were trimmed with exquisitely handstitched lace trim and were well worn into that lovely soft state that only the oldest, most well –used and well-loved fabrics can have.  I picked one up and rubbed it gently against my cheek before continuing my survey of the room.  At the foot of the bed there was an old “hope chest”, lined with cedar to keep away those pesky moths and filled with additional bed and bath linens as well as some of the loveliest dressing gowns I had ever seen.  Again, they were simple; white, trimmed with handmade lace of the softest sort and made of a fabric that just begged to be touched.  There were even warm fuzzy slippers in the trunk!   As I looked at my surroundings, I felt such a sense of calm and comfort come over me.  Whoever had set this room up for me had clearly done their homework.  This room spoke of me and to me like none I had ever seen even in my own home.  In fact, the furnishings for the most part duplicated those in my own home with some additions that made the space simply perfect.  Had I been put into the luxurious, fancy room I had envisioned, my stay might not have been a very long one.  I couldn’t envision myself being comfortable in such a room no matter how gorgeous it would have been.  And with the dark times I have been battling in my life, I so craved comfort just now.  If there were such a thing as “comfort food” for the soul, this room clearly fit the bill.  I am so grateful and appreciative of whomever arranged this for me.  This is truly just what I need and I can feel the darkness lifting already.    I hear a knock at the door and open it to see Matron standing there bearing a tray of the marvellous chicken soup I have heard of and been so craving, along with freshly baked bread rolls that she informs me have just come out of the oven.  She informs me proudly that her daughter Roberta is responsible for making these rolls and declares them better than any I will ever taste!  They certainly smell delicious.  For a “sweet treat” she has also included some small tea cakes also baked by her daughter.  Also on the tray is a pot of tea and a vase of Colleen’s lovely roses.  The aroma from them competes with that from the bread as being absolutely so beautiful that it’s entrancing.  Matron tells me that she hears I have been feeling poorly and so the teapot contains a tea made of Loretta’s special herbal blend.  She says it will have me feeling better in no time.  I am already headed in that direction with all the hospitality I have felt since arriving at the Manor.  I am further informed that Loretta has offered me her services as an acupuncturist (yum! I do love acupuncture and find it helps me to feel so much better when my bones and muscles are aching) and that the stables stand ready whenever I am prepared to begin my horseback riding lessons.  Now how did Matron know I had been wanting such lessons? I crawl into bed with my tray of goodies, outfitted in a lovely dressing gown and bedsocks to keep my toes toasty.  A fire was started in the fireplace from me and it looks and feels heavenly.  I am wrapped in the soft comfort of a quilt and with every breath I take I can feel the tension leaving my body.  Riversleigh is clearly just what I have been needing and I look forward to what the following days here will bring.

Life’s New Year

It was the first day of the new year,
surly next by one of yesterday,
and failing of when by a sunset.
It was, above all and known
to be the daylife of the wizard,
but so was every time and place,
for no eternal clock
or writ of stars and fairie dust
made this day above or alone.

He sat upon a cushion in his tower,
absorbing a misty view of seldom,
and listening to the patient song
of gears and wheels and spokes and things
that brought dewing from the lips of ferns
and coaxed shadows from the smile of dawn,
but not by choice alone
or draw of Currents remembered,
found this moment of everbreath.

For he also sat within a meadow,
chatting low with the seeds of Spring,
and learn-teaching of the crystal death
that cycled waiting birth of dreams
and caressed the wonder of creation.
That he was one and both entwined,
know this is magick
and by love’s attention reclaimed
from entropy and loneliness.

Listen to the bees claim importance
for the pollen kiss of Father sun,
and the pebbles decry life and awe
of which they throught absence are so wise.
Listen to ashes whisper of the fire
that gave them existence through destruction,
but by these be known
that a wizard is nearly far
and even thee are of today.
………………………………………………………………………

faucon of Sakin’el, Gusari for today

Come to the campfire…

Much as I love the Manor, I have parked my little caravan in the apple orchard, for it is here that I feel most at home. I love it when people wander by and stop for a chat and a cup of tea brewed over the campfire. I know Papa and Emmie will come by and keep me company, and I hope Lois will find her way there. I expect to see that wicked wench Sybil too, when she learns that the Gypsy camp is not far off and that the handsome Lavengro will be visiting. All this talk of looking like Johnny Depp has gone to the man’s head – now he is sporting piratical whiskers and flirting with the ladies of the Calabar. But they are more than a match for him.
In the meantime, I sit on my caravan steps with my shawl wrapped tightly around my shoulders, sipping my tea and watching the lights twinkle in the manor. There’s a bit of a nip in the air, but inside my caravan it is warm and cosy and the table is laid for tea. Who will come to call, I wonder?

Dark Night Walk

Yesterday I took a couple of blocks to get the lead out of my legs, having done nothing but lie around trying to shake this miserable cold. One never has to travel to far to find beauty.

Can also be viewed at

http://labratsdesk.wordpress.com/2006/12/31/a-walk-at-nightfall/

Happy New Year Season

Happy New Year Season to all!

(copyright Imogen Crest 2006.)
(Image adapted from 1930’s New Year Greeting.)

Conversations by Moonlight

 

I wonder, were you the one that saw me tending the Garden last night?

Were you the one that stood behind that tree with your notebook clenched in your hand, your eyes opened wide in terror, horror and revulsion as you saw me for what I am?

Were you the one that wanted to scream and runaway but just…didn’t?

Were you the one that watched as I did my Midnight Gardening?

Did you see me on my knees, digging into the earth with my bare hands, laughing as I dropped each rotted seed down into the dark wet soil?

I wonder what you did when you saw me lean down and kiss the Dark Earth. I wonder what you felt when I looked up and you were positive I saw you.

Well, I did.

I saw the look on your face…I know that look.

After my seeds sprout and grow and reach up to the dark, dark night sky I’ll be back to harvest them…and I’ll tell you their secrets.

I know that’s what you want, but it will be our little secret.

I won’t talk- because it’s a fact ….

Dead Men Tell No Tales.

New Postings

Last night I did some posting on Riversleigh:
http://riversleigh.wordpress.com/2006/12/30/the-twelve-days-of-christmas/
http://riversleigh.wordpress.com/2006/12/30/holiday-moments-and-a-very-nice-view-from-my-window/

Stillness in my Riversleigh Study

I am being told to be still

Rushing around in my head

Looking for the next thing to do

Is not that healthy

It’s like being afraid of being yourself

Being by yourself

With yourself

And just being

It takes some courage

To be still with your thoughts

And then allow them to dissipate

So that true consciousness takes over

But I will practise until

I can be still whenever I need to

Evening At Riversleigh (pt 2)

12/30/06                        10:15 pm
Gorgeous sunset from the deck. The total event isn’t visible from outside–there are trees between the balcony and the line of the horizon. When I lived in Florida, by the Gulf of Mexico, I could watch the entire sunset. No trees out in the Gulf to mask the sun’s departure. So, like a gigantic yellow/orange egg breaking, the bottom of the sun emptied into the water until just a tiny patch of the water was yellow/orange. That soon faded and then the clouds slowly darkened. Sigh. Such sunsets are about the only thing I miss about Florida. Hmm. Well. Bong me on the head! The morning feelings of unreality are more than simple jet lag/time differences. Duh. I’m back in a semi-tropical environment! The date is 12/30/06. The next to the last day of December. I went from a traditional Christmas (freezing temperatures) to a balmy, South Florida-like climate. A primitive, biological part of me is saying, “What happened? Where am I?” Hmm. I did not have a similar reaction when relocating from Fla to the Seattle area. I wanted snowy Christmases. And the seasonal changes were gradual, not abrupt. Not a one day change from winter to early summer. Okay. I feel better now. I experienced a weather warp as well as a time warp. One explanation down. Were was I? Yes, gorgeous sunset. I enjoyed my tea. It had a fruity? aftertaste. Coconut and ?? Not lemon, orange, or peach. Not berry either. Kiwi? Mango? Maybe. I did tell Roberta to surprise me. It’s probably a local blend. I’ll ask. It was good. Tea is good. I don’t drink coffee. And you chose to move to Seattle? The coffee capital? The idea of coffee–all the flavors is appealing. But the caffeine! Yikes! No, I bounce off the wall when I drink real, fresh-brewed coffee. No coffee for me. I do not know why the caffeine in tea does not have the same effect upon me, but it doesn’t. I can drink a gallon of tea and not overdose on the caffeine. Strange. Very strange. Back to the present moment. Now I’m sitting on my bed, laptop on lap, writing drivel about tea and coffee. Yawn. I’ve been yawning half the day it seems. Anyway, tea time is over. I left the empty cart in the hallway. No doubt an invisible house-elf will claim it soon. I spent five minutes reading the last two pages of today’s Lord of the Rings chapter. I am pleased to report: Aragorn & company made it safely through the mountain passage. But they are being followed by the Army of The Dead. It seems that Aragorn couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He had to announce his royal heritage, show off his new sword-er, no, that’s what he did in the movie. (PJ took a little dramatic license and switched scenes.) In the book Aragorn merely identifies himself — I am Elessar, Isildur’s heir of Gondor. And I want to be King! It’s good to be the King! No, I’m joking! Wrong movie. Hush. Comments like that will attract RB’s attention. Yawn again. Maybe I should go to sleep instead.
You haven’t written much about tonight’s other surprise.
Not now, Freud Jr. I’m not in the mood.
You have a headache?
My body is saying, sleep, sleep.
What is your subconscious saying?
It’s getting rather late to play the analysis game, isn’t it?
The night is still young.
Yeah, but I’m not as young as I used to be. Sometimes the best therapeutic advice is-to sleep on it.
Yes, to sleep-and perchance to dream?
Uh-umm, er-you have a point.
Always.
Always?
The subconscious doesn’t beat around the bush, so to speak. When it communicates, the smart person listens.
I-I…
Yes?
I hate it when you out-talk me.
You are talking to yourself.
Thanks for reminding me.
Ahem
What?
The red rose.
The rose. I put it on a nightstand, next to my bed. Where I can admire its beauty for several days. I know precisely why it triggered my emotions. It’s an old issue. An old wound/scar. Nothing more.
Really? You lessen the beauty of the rose by ignoring its metaphorical significance. Layers upon layers of meaning it holds. Like the layers of the rose’s petals. Layer #1 is the sheer beauty of the rose. Layer #2 is who you remembered when you saw the rose. No explanation required. Old issue. Much explored. Still sensitive though. But pretty much panned out. I doubt there are any additional insights we could gain by rehashing old material. Back to the layers. Layer #3 and related to Layer #2 -the old scar-is the beginning of the metaphors. The rose has thorns. Thorns prick. And you have been pricked. Remember that statement?
Yes.                                                                                                                                                          Then “experience is never lost” and “the heart never forgets.”  You were getting-quite philosophical by the time you were speaking about time.  Time is a red herring.   
??-I did not say Time is a red herring.  I said Time is an illusion.  
I called Time a red herring-let’s go back to the rose. It’s the most important metaphor.   
Yawn. I’m beginning to understand why RB doesn’t always appreciate the therapist self. 
Back to the pricking part  
What did I just say?  No, I won’t go there.   
A Freudian slip?
Oh, by the pricking of my thumbs something wicked this way comes… 
Actually, that subconscious slip was about another part of the human anatomy.  
We won’t go there.
Corel has an edit/delete key.
I do not use it, not in my journal writings. What were you saying about the rose?
It’s a metaphor.
I believe that has been established beyond reproach.
Let me rephrase-it’s a personal metaphor.
Yeah, I’d say I have very personal feelings about roses.
Here’s another metaphor for you–you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make her drink.
Ahh, translation- I am being resistant.
Which means we’re going in the right direction.
Which means tread lightly upon my defenses.
Or the horse will run away?
Like the wind.
Hmm. We’ve switched metaphors.
You started it.
So I did. Back to the rose?
How many times?
As many times as it takes.
I see at least three repetitions of that phrase.
How many petals does a rose have?
Three petals-er, layers so far: the rose’s beauty, my emotional response to the rose, & the rose’s thorns. I have been paying attention.
Good. Ready for the next layer?
Lay it on me, Freud Jr.
I-uh-no comment.
We won’t go there.
Good. Layer #4 is-you are the red rose.
It’s the Gestalt approach! Become the object in your dream or in this instance, the metaphor. And I thought you were a strict Freudian.
DJ?
Yes?
Shut up and think about it.
                                          For how long?
As long as it takes.

I am the red rose. I am the red rose in full bloom. I am not the rose bud anymore. I am the mature flower. Feels good so far. I am the red rose. I have red petals and green leaves and-yes! I am the rose-I have red hair and green eyes. Wow. Nice metaphor. I am the rose. Roses are red and violets are blue- which one are you?
Subjective voice. I am…
I’m free associating, Freud Jr. I am the red rose. I have petals, leaves, thorns, a stem, and a vase to–but you really want to me to discuss the thorns, don’t you? You referred to them as much as to the rose itself. Roses have thorns. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever met a rose without thorns. Therefore-following the metaphor-as a rose I have thorns. My personality quirks? My faults? The purpose of thorns, for the rose, is protection. hmm How do my personality quirks and so-called “faults” protect me? Therapeutic ? Tagged for later review. Responding to that question right now would be a distraction. Back to the rose metaphor. Roses have thorns. Thorns prick and I have been pricked. Who hath pricked thee? One question to ask. And whom hath I pricked? The second question to ask. Do not ask why though. It happens. That’s life. It’s the way mother nature made the rose. Beauty with thorns. The joy and the pain. One package for every one. Can’t exclude one without excluding the other. Getting too philosophical again? Stop & smell the roses! hmm No, I won’t go there. A little too personal. I am a rose. Roses are lovely. I can be lovely too. When I want to be. Red roses are romantic.  Ditto, ditto. A walk thru Cupid’s grove together! Happy thoughts. Cupid’s grove. A rose garden of course. I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose garden. Old, old country song. A golden oldie. In olden days a glimpse of stocking, was looked on as something shocking, but now God knows, Anything Goes! Good authors too who once knew better words, now only use four-letter words, Writing prose, Anything goes! No singing. I am a red rose. A rose is a rose is a rose and by any other name it would smell as sweet. If I am a rose-no, I won’t go there. I am a rose. I am the walrus, I am, koo, koo, ka choo! Okay! Everybody back to dry land! Except for the walrus. Session over. What time is it?
10:55 pm.
How many pages?
Four.
Is that all? It felt much longer.
It’s late and you are tired.
I hadn’t noticed. Let’s wrap this up and call it a night. Oh, Freud Jr?
Yes?
Are you ready for a little feedback?
If I said no, would you tell me anyway?
Probably.
I thought so. What’s on your mind then?
Good work. An A+ for therapeutic competence.
I only led the horse to the water.
Enough of the damn metaphors!
Has anyone ever told you that you get very cranky when you need sleep?
I hadn’t noticed. Now say good-night, Freud Jr.
Good-night.

12/30/06 10:55 pm
Enjoying a quiet Saturday night. A gorgeous sunset. Tea and chocolate chip cookies for dessert. Had an interesting conversation with an old friend. Getting ready for bed. My things are unpacked. Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve. Places to go & people to see. Yada, yada. Yawn. Oh, yeah. Note to writer self. Check the tenses in tonight’s writing. I think they’re as mixed as someone’s metaphors.