This

Gold - LoveThis stuff,
I could reach up and touch it if I wanted to.
It used to be far away, elusive,
and now.. I can feel it.

If I reached up, my fingers would be in the sticky honey of light.
It would be contagious, shimmering down into my body,
spreading through my everything and out from my eyes
and I would see through honey colored glasses. Yes, I would. I would.

The wise rose permeates my scene. The full rose, the gentle rose.
Speaking of the softer secrets, the land, the sea,
the fragility of innocence, the fullness of the mother.

This pungent rose. And the sight of petals.
Petals, petals, everywhere.
Lily, iris, moonflower, lotus, morning glories
upright, on the ground, in the air, in my mind,
feathering against my cheek as the spring breezes flow in streams of color around me, cherry blossoms.
Flowers dainty, trite, shriill, discarded
as too petty have become my elegant world.

Life’s delight is in the changes.
The turns and the tones, the things revealed by the moon’s pull on the edges of the ocean,
rising out of the deep sand, smiling as if they’ve been there all along, watching.
I walked on a beach with a million starfishes last week.
So many stars, so fragile, so persistent, their tenacity to flourish.
So persistent.

The pleasure of the unexpected, the sudden change, brace, take hold, gasp,
stop a moment and then a slight
bright smile that slips from my lips almost without my noticing.
Oh my, look, look. What next? What fun.
What adventure. What a life when I am noticing.

I am a sandy sand dollar on the beach.
I might be noticed. I might be stepped on by the happy bounding dog.
Either way I am a sand dollar and what I am next will be different.
On someone’s dash board soaking up music from the stereo or disintegrating back to Mother Ocean,
a path is a path, each one continues, flows into another and another
endlessly, a beautiful ribbon of life as the streamers in the breeze
announcing north, east, southwest, fallow. Sync, unsync, hallow.

Sheets of laughter come by with the early wind of summer’s dawn.
Falling on the floor stuff. Puddles of your soup lost on the table as you drop the spoon, stuff.
Lost in glee, the grains shake to merry, slippery, rain-fallen, forgotten dust, return to earth.

I am bones, revealing themselves as the tide washes the sand down around me.
I am old and my time in the dark has intoned my marrow with the ancientness of myself.
I do not need a sparrow to tell me that spring has come.
I do not need my eyes or my teeth or a prowess.

I walk and the world shimmers around me.

by Tasara

Lotus

When the lotus blooms, she brings forth all that she has seen in the underworld. She pulls herself up and up, changing from muck to morning and when she blooms there is heaven there waiting to kiss her, happy kisses with tears of joy and the knowing, the knowing that all who have ascended know from their memories of the deep darkness beneath us. That which scares. That which taunts, which nourishes those who brave to look upon it, who brave to be caught up in it, to risk the terrible risk of not coming back home.

And when it blooms, it blooms in slow motion, sequentially, many times over, overlapping, creating petals of motion which caress, coax joy, sing songs unheard, sweeping in freshness from the sweet world which we live in.

by Tasara

Kachina Starblower

Last night we built a little tipi out of the sticks we found lying in the yard. There were a whole lot of us, this gathering of hope and passion and seeking. We were all very excited. Finally, we sat really, really still and with only whispers, opened an invisible gate above us for the invitation.

Someone said, “Starblower.” and I opened myself up to find out who he was. This Starblower , he came and through me he blew a wind of stars. A wind of stars that blew and blew and blew forever from forever to forever. I gasped. Throughout my body, expanded, every molecule touched, the stars, so blessed, so familiar.

“Where have you been?!” I cried, as the little girl who remembered them, who had longed for them, so long. It was a homecoming. My body swayed back and back in the breeze. I floated, floated above my roots, swaying.

This went. On and on.. and on.

When the people stopped talking and went away there were three or four of us left. We sat in a circle around the candles, this campfire not made of fire but of blue peace. Deep blue peace, so homecoming and so blue and so deep that we wept, immobilized by its beauty, by the stillness, by the stars that were still blowing, blowing through us.

I went to bed full of stars and blowing and I woke up with them still streaming through me. If I close my eyes and draw forth the deep blue peace, the weeping begins all over again.

I know what attunement means, now. I know who I am. I am a gate to the stars.

by Tasara

There’s No Such Thing as A Muggle

There is no such thing as a Muggle. It’s a plot device created by a woman who wanted to create an us/them dynamic in her book to make one group seem more special than another.

But it’s a lie. There is no such thing as a Muggle.

We are all so magic.
It is in our blood, this ancient blood that has been passed from womb to womb for thousands of years. There is no muggle, only gorgeous, magical people unfolding to various degrees all around us, all in their own good time.

To be around a rose brings the emanation of rose into our beings.
To be around a moonflower…. around a pixie…. a saint… a lover…a passionate craftsperson.
We are affected by the forces around us and not all of us are living in uplifting environments.

We all have passion whether flowing freely or locked within. We all have love.
We all have the power to make things happen in the world around us.

There is no such thing as a muggle and the word being used in the way I have heard is used is not any better to me than other names people have been called over the centuries in this country. Names that most of us would not stand to hear our friends use.

May we all learn to see the brilliant, beautiful souls of others. May it become it easy to hold others with love and light. To see the barriers, the fear, the anger and not take it on, but rather soften the air around those who are lost in stress…. and beam a little.

I love it when people can do that for me on the days that I need it.

There is no such thing as a Muggle.

by Tasara

What Goddess Would I Invoke?

goddessWhat goddess shall I invoke to heighten the goddess in me?
Will I pick a temptress or fine lady like Persephone?
Will I call on a mother to keep me safe and strong?
Will it be the Great Isis who’s led my path for so long?

What if I sing to the water nymphs who love to laugh and play
just like I do when I am in the river for the whole day?
Or the wild tree one with the smile of fun, whose glimpse has become so rare
that no one knows her story or how she came to be at the fair.

No, I think I’ll call on the one I know that has been here since I was born
I’ll call on the Goddess of Me with my silver horn.
She is no aspect of anything, she’s the whole package for sure.
From dark to light, fair to blight, the one that will always endure.

She was born from a human named Judith, who rode horses across the plain
and a Pa named David who could think of nothing but flying his next airplane.
She came from the woods of the great northeast and traveled across to the sea
where the mountains are high, the ravens do fly and there she threw out her TV.

That’s who I will call, it’s nothing at all and bigger than I could expect.
To honor myself, (not a book on the shelf), a mystery too deep to inspect.

by Tasara

The Spider Story

There once was a little spider. She liked to spin little webs in the grass. She didn’t care if animals walking by destroyed her webs. She just made another one. Her webs were always different and she liked to make them so much. In the morning they glistened with the dew and at night they shone under the star light.

When she got bigger, the spider climbed up into the trees. There she made her webs between the branches and she got to listen to the gossip of the monkeys. She also found that she could make webs that connected the trees. She liked this connecting part of her webs very much. It was like she could be in two places at once. She could also get to places and explore and she went to many places.

One day the spider decided that she would throw her web high in the air and see what where it would land next. Well, her web landed right on a star. The spider was so surprised she was not sure what to do but you know, curiosity is quite overwhelming so what do you think she did? Well of course she had to climb up the web to see what it would be like to be on a star. When she got there she turned around and ohhh wow, she said! She had no idea that the earth looked like a beautiful blue marble.

What else, she noticed that she could see over all the earth. In her life, she had been to many places, spinning and crawling from one web to another. But when she looked down, she could see two places that she loved at once. She thought, well, let me try something. And she cast a web down to an old place where the big cats liked to roam and then also she cast a web down to her favorite place with the monkeys in the trees.

After she did that, she felt wonderful. She had connected these two places that she loved and knew that they were connected in some beautiful way through her. She loved to love the earth and decided to stay up there on the star.

The spider has been up in the stars for so long that nobody really remembers when she first climbed up there. Her web has grown to reach places all over the earth and after being under the moonlight for so long, it has grown silver and strong enough to walk upon. She has been up there for so long that over time, she learned to turn into a lady whenever she wants to. That is why she is called Spiderwoman. She loves to cast her web down to people she loves and she knows that she can connect these people that she loves in this way. So if you ever feel like your life has shifted in unexpected and mysterious ways, bumping you into marvelous and miraculous people, maybe the Spiderlady did it.

by Tasara

Bees imagine

**Bee Imagine**

Imagine you are a bee.

You buzz in airy ocean
of the most delicious smells,
waves and ribbons of them
some pungent and full,
some like narrow streams of gladness.

In low places there is found lace, heaven.
Further on, grace.
Along the fences is rosy rose,
burst of rose,
sweet rose,
cool rose.

But there is one scent,
a ravenously dizzy scent
that calls soft through airy jungle
as you madly fly its trail

all high and too hither.

by Tasara

Mask Making

The Blessings of AlgizWe do molds on our faces for mask making. This is how we do it. We lie, 4 of us, heads together, feet facing the 4 directions. Close our eyes and our partners lays plaster/clothe strips over our faces until there is nothing uncovered but nostril holes to breathe out of.

There is sage. There is chiming, a didj played around our bodies. There is a guided meditation, down to wooded places,..and high to forests above the sky.

The message we are told is beautiful, that we are offering ourselves up to create a template of our own faces. This template to be used to sculpt masks of the archetypes that we are called upon to – and that we choose to accept the call of – to craft a mask for. An archetype will be presented through our own faces. A mirror of ourselves, the sacred, our relationship to it and whatever the perceiver perceives. I am cold and I have to pee. Really bad.

Finally we arrive to the place where we are to meet ones willing to come be made…this place is dry for me. Spiderwoman has taken her seat weeks ago. So this is a little boring. But why? Aren’t there ANY others? But see…there is a little black spider crawling on the edges…

We are called back. There is drumming and singing. I am thinking ok…whatever… and then HE appears.

I’ve seen him before, glimpses of him. I don’t know where, perhaps in dreams, behind the layers in my shamanic journeys, definitely in the folds of magic at the festivals. It is “Myth Maker”. It is HE. He stands before me. I am once again, awestruck that he would come to me. Me. Me. He is wearing a leather mask with curves cut into it the remind me of the “Place where Myths are Made” under the tree in the deep deep lower world. This place I was taken to a month ago to be told that I too can partake in this energy. It is not only for “others”. I can come any time I like.

HE is full of the darkness of mystery. He radiates power of stalking, of love in a hidden way, of an awesome and formidable charge to make stories and bring them forth to the light. (this charge I do not fully realize until the next day). He touches me. For a moment he is inside me and then he is before me again. And then he disappears.

My body is shaking with emotion and a surge of energy.

It is time to come back. Remove the masks. We have been lying on the empty stage for about an hour so I wrinkle my face until the hardening plaster pulls off my face. I want to weep for no reason. I sit, mask in hand, eyes closed still and cry. A bit.

So. There are tears in the inside of my mask.

I am repelled away from the intensity into the clearing, remembering it being referred to as a sacred grove during meditation. I look up at the sky, the towering trees. I am pulled to a white block of granite and magnetized there for what seems an endless amount of time, as waves of energy rush and rush and rush through my body. Oh goodness, this was unexpected..not the sort of thing that happens in one, simple guided meditation.

I cannot move. I am entranced. I’ve been here too long. I cannot think of any place left to go, away from chatting…the stage has become a sacred space and no one is trying to talk to me so I can be there, while Hjeron finishes the last person, lying on it’s sacred floor, face down until I am so cold I am shivering.

I am at the fire pit, blanket wrapped around me while I stare and stare and stare and stare. This energy is not leaving me. I am into it and it is into me in similar patterns of sacred mushrooms and I do not want to let it go. It is not subsiding. So I sit and sit and stare. I am not sure what, how or when the patterns faded.

I know as I write this I could tap right back into it again. I don’t know how long this will be in me. I feel such terror. Terror that this dream, this charge, this making that I longed for so long to be a part of will not accept me when I open myself to it. I gently tell myself to take my own time, that a gift given such as this will not go away.

by Tasara

Puddle of Joy

I let go
and all construct and reason flew above me,
useless as I fell.
I felt warm.
Warm darkness, warm earth, warm love, warm embrace.

I waited for the crash of the fall.
And it did not happen.
Huge laughter welled out,
my world changed,
my heart opened
like the smell of good cooking wafting from the kitchen.

I am fine.

I looked around see a tribe of jewels,
each glittering differently, each dark night mysterious,
each as soft as the morning sun on the dew before the festival begins.

And in my kitchen there is the salt of the earth
my friends huddled in the booth,
giggling over tea,
what we make, what we share spread throughout the land
for what we love cannot fit into one hundred rooms
and there are a hundred rooms ready for such giggling.

We spin, we weave, the spider in the stars has a grin.
We dance, we play, we paint our faces and goof around.

The creatures from the other side, the sacred ones
creep into our skins and gleam at one another through our eyes.

There is so much more to us than us,
we, sacred portals, to bow to one another
to hold out our hands, to get up and live
to be brave, to fall down, to take the roll and then

to laugh.

by Tasara

May you break free from the patterns that bind you.