Blue Moon in Water

It’s sometime in the mid ’80s.  I drive to the foot of a mountain somewhere west of Morrison, Colorado, to meet friends for a Blue Moon Ceremony.  I’ve only had Grandmother Drum a few years and she wants to be there on that mountain top.  People start to trek up the steep path as I gather up my bag of ceremony, a blanket and Grandmother Drum.  I follow along in the late day light, the last in line.

Grandmother Drum was never so heavy.  She is a big Taos drum that I bought at the pueblo from drum maker Red Shirt.  She likes to be in circle with people honoring the Earth and the Sky.  I trudge along, readjust the bag on my shoulder, feel the bite of twisted leather as I grip the drum handle.  Red dust scuffs my shoes as I weave through the underbrush, no longer able to see those ahead of me.

Drought dry leaves crunch beneath my feet.  I stop, change hands, shift the bag to the opposite shoulder.  When I look up I see Scott’s long legs headed back down the mountain, a grin on his handsome face.  He reaches down and takes Grandmother Drum as if she were an illusion.  My bag becomes lighter.  I follow his long stride up and up and up around curves and still I cannot see the others.  Finally the path opens to a flat mesa.

Everyone is settling into a circle as Father Sun bows down to Grandmother Blue Moon filling the eastern horizon beyond the twinkling lights of Denver far below.  Magic flows in on a breeze and an owl calls out blessings.  We smudge.  I pull Rune Stones from my bag.  Each person pulls a stone , returns it to the bag and passes it around after the reading.  Everyone has the same Rune. 

Tonight I will drive down to the lake at moon ise and watch Grandmother Moon splash across the waters and listen for owl and coyote.

What blue moon do you remember?

Blue Moon in Water

It’s sometime in the mid ’80s.  I drive to the foot of a mountain somewhere west of Morrison, Colorado, to meet friends for a Blue Moon Ceremony.  I’ve only had Grandmother Drum a few years and she wants to be there on that mountain top.  People start to trek up the steep path as I gather up my bag of ceremony, a blanket and Grandmother Drum.  I follow along in the late day light, the last in line.

Grandmother Drum was never so heavy.  She is a big Taos drum that I bought at the pueblo from drum maker Red Shirt.  She likes to be in circle with people honoring the Earth and the Sky.  I trudge along, readjust the bag on my shoulder, feel the bite of twisted leather as I grip the drum handle.  Red dust scuffs my shoes as I weave through the underbrush, no longer able to see those ahead of me.

Drought dry leaves crunch beneath my feet.  I stop, change hands, shift the bag to the opposite shoulder.  When I look up I see Scott’s long legs headed back down the mountain, a grin on his handsome face.  He reaches down and takes Grandmother Drum as if she were an illusion.  My bag becomes lighter.  I follow his long stride up and up and up around curves and still I cannot see the others.  Finally the path opens to a flat mesa.

Everyone is settling into a circle as Father Sun bows down to Grandmother Blue Moon filling the eastern horizon beyond the twinkling lights of Denver far below.  Magic flows in on a breeze and an owl calls out blessings.  We smudge.  I pull Rune Stones from my bag.  Each person pulls a stone , returns it to the bag and passes it around after the reading.  Everyone has the same Rune. 

Tonight I will drive down to the lake at moon ise and watch Grandmother Moon splash across the waters and listen for owl and coyote.

What blue moon do you remember?

Harvest Hot and Fair Time

I go to the Lynden Fair with my belly dancing class, not to perform but to help wherever needed.  I arrive Capricorn early and wander the crowds watching people with corn dogs, funnel cakes and dripping ice cream cones.  Blasting hiphop with jet fast words, aisles of vendors, screaming children run under a spray of welcome water and people smile from wheelchairs.

Without knowing it, I head for the Sheep & Goat Barn.  Inside the dark barn, I stop still with emotion, my throat tight, water blurring my vision.  Heavy dusty air laced with the fragrance of hay and the bleat of a discontented ewe.  Rows of penned goats.  Llamas too regal to face the admiring crowd.

I have not been to a fair in six summers.  I had been over-faired.  Over fiften years ago, I said NO MORE FAIRS.  I did four that summer.  Our grandson lived with us and joined 4-H with a cashmere goat he entered in the local fair.  Then he took a ribbon at state.  I entered handspun and handknit items in two fairs, that year and many others.

Then I became Superintendent of the Wool Barn for a couple of years, dividing tasks with other fiber freaks.  Valerie and I became Superintendents for the new Handspun Fiber Arts division.  We both did that until we each moved out of state.  Summers of heat and hot fiber and dust.

No more fairs seemed only reasonable.  The wheel spins, the sasons change and there I was in the Wool Room at the Lynden Fair watching people spin, checking out  fleece, thinking I should warp my table loom.  Fairs always inspire me.  I contemplate a new knitting project, forgetting all that are in progress.

I lean into a Nubian pen, let her sniff my words as I speak of the beauty of her slanted eyes.  Big black faced closely shorn sheep, perhaps Suffolk.  Blanketed girls, Merino or Correydale or some other fine fiber.  Just as I can no longer bare the heartache and joy, a pen of three Icelandic ewes.  I turn to their pen, tell them what stellar beauties they are.  That old feeling surfaces:  desire.  I could covet these sweet sheep in a minute.  Is that why I race from the Barn with a head full of memories galloping over my eyelids?  I forget to see if I can buy an Icelandic fleece.

And the Bellydancers of Bellingham delighted young and old, truly the beauties of the fair.

 

 

Harvest Hot and Fair Time

I go to the Lynden Fair with my belly dancing class, not to perform but to help wherever needed.  I arrive Capricorn early and wander the crowds watching people with corn dogs, funnel cakes and dripping ice cream cones.  Blasting hiphop with jet fast words, aisles of vendors, screaming children run under a spray of welcome water and people smile from wheelchairs.

Without knowing it, I head for the Sheep & Goat Barn.  Inside the dark barn, I stop still with emotion, my throat tight, water blurring my vision.  Heavy dusty air laced with the fragrance of hay and the bleat of a discontented ewe.  Rows of penned goats.  Llamas too regal to face the admiring crowd.

I have not been to a fair in six summers.  I had been over-faired.  Over fiften years ago, I said NO MORE FAIRS.  I did four that summer.  Our grandson lived with us and joined 4-H with a cashmere goat he entered in the local fair.  Then he took a ribbon at state.  I entered handspun and handknit items in two fairs, that year and many others.

Then I became Superintendent of the Wool Barn for a couple of years, dividing tasks with other fiber freaks.  Valerie and I became Superintendents for the new Handspun Fiber Arts division.  We both did that until we each moved out of state.  Summers of heat and hot fiber and dust.

No more fairs seemed only reasonable.  The wheel spins, the sasons change and there I was in the Wool Room at the Lynden Fair watching people spin, checking out  fleece, thinking I should warp my table loom.  Fairs always inspire me.  I contemplate a new knitting project, forgetting all that are in progress.

I lean into a Nubian pen, let her sniff my words as I speak of the beauty of her slanted eyes.  Big black faced closely shorn sheep, perhaps Suffolk.  Blanketed girls, Merino or Correydale or some other fine fiber.  Just as I can no longer bare the heartache and joy, a pen of three Icelandic ewes.  I turn to their pen, tell them what stellar beauties they are.  That old feeling surfaces:  desire.  I could covet these sweet sheep in a minute.  Is that why I race from the Barn with a head full of memories galloping over my eyelids?  I forget to see if I can buy an Icelandic fleece.

And the Bellydancers of Bellingham delighted young and old, truly the beauties of the fair.

 

 

Vegan Schmegan

Image

Fresh veggies in Bellingham                              Photo credit:  C.J. Prince

“Are you 100% vegan?” I asked my daughter in a text.  She came to visit last week and I wanted to be 100% prepared.  After all, I used to be a Girl Scout.

“Except for honey on occasion” was the reply.  HONEY?  I had never thought about honey as vegan but I saw immediately that it was an animal byproduct.  Oh.  Well I already had rice syrup and agave on the counter so I was covered.

This should all come easily.  I’ve been a vegetarian for 40 plus years.  Some years more casually than others.  A year ago my daughter gave me a copy of “The Happy Herbivore” and I became a vegan.  Maybe a 98.3% vegan.

If you live in the Northwest, can you really go forever without salmon ?  Maybe now that the waters are contaminated by debris from last year’s tsunami in Japan, it will become a consideration.

What did I learn from my daughter?  Did you know they make vegan butter?  Really.  And it tastes great.  Makes me want to make scampi.  Oh, no.  That’s  a little crawly thing from the  ocean.  Anyway, it was great to learn about that.  I’d already discovered vegan cream cheese and have been making cheesecake that is better than anything New York can claim!

Why vegan?  Do you know where your food comes from?  I want to see a smear of dirt on my carrot, not a glob of blood on a package.  “Fork Over Knives”, the movie and the book, gives a very intense background on the health values of a vegan diet.  The book “Eat Right 4 Your Type” will tell you why an O Blood Type needs good red meat.  So, there is a reason for everything.

I followed my natural inclinations in the 60s and became a vegetarian.  (I’m an A Blood Type, no meat allowed.)

We evolve.  We experiment.  We change.  We eat what is best to current knowledge.  What are you eating these days?

CRYSTAL SINGING BOWL CONCERT TONIGHT

February 2012

 

Looks like a salad bowl, sings like an angel.

Marilyn Rinn and Annie Reynolds of Sound Snacks will present a Crystal Bowl Concert tonight, 6:30 PM at the Barn, co-sponsored by Sudden Valley Tai Chi.  Donations of non-perishable foods or a check made out to Whatcom Food Bank will be accepted.

The white ones look like a large salad bowl. Crystal healing bowls infused with earth minerals glisten with the promise of unexpected sounds.

Sudden Valley resident Annie Reynolds and her musical partner Marilyn Rinn, known as Sound Snacks, will introduce a collection of sounds and their healing potential on Tuesday, February 7th, at 6:30 PM in the Dance Barn.

Sound Snacks and Sudden Valley Tai Chi will collect food donations to be given to the Food Bank. “People usually give at Christmas time but the need continues. We invite people to give food donations,” said Annie. The donations will be delivered to Whatcom County Food Bank as demand continues to excede supply.

“It’s Valentines and we invite people to give from the heart,” said Marilyn.

Crystal bowls are an outgrowth of the computer industry. Each bowl is 99.9 % quartz crystal which is melted at 4000 degrees, spun in a centrafuge and formed into shaped bowls.

“People are familiar with Tibetan metal bowls,” Marilyn said. “Most cultures in the world have used sound in healing in some fashion.” The tones of the bowls flow into the body, inviting healing. “The bowls harmonize the body and dissolve blockages,” she said.

Each crystal singing bowl holds a specific note that rises when tapped with a wand. The tones are aligned with each of the eight chakras, also known as energy centers, that align vertically along the torso and one above the head.

“Alchemical bowls add additional minerals,” said Annie. The bowls incorporate a variety of minerals including indium, emerald, iron, amethyst, citrine, charcoal and rose quartz. “Each bowl has a slightly different personality,” she said. “When our bodies vibrate in disharmony, it is called dis-ease. The bowls bring us into harmon and we feel the shift.”