Circle of Friends

Many in the Writers’ Night Out group have been asked the question, “What is it really like to live a magickal life?” To help answer the question, Writers’ Night Out will bring you a new group project in 2012.

Circle of Friends is a fictional piece told through postings to the Hidden Inspirations blog from the varying perspectives of different characters, each created by a Writers’ Night Out member.  The Circle of Friends is an eclectic group of people from differing backgrounds who come together each month for a healing circle.  Hollywood depictions aside, just as with any other spiritual path, this is a way of life.  These are normal people with mundane jobs, and the same concerns about the economy and their families as everyone else.  Similar to prayer groups found in churches around the world, these individuals join to actively work for the good of others.  The terminology may be different than that used in more conventional paths – and thus more intimidating to some, but the intent is very much the same.  Although the characters are fictional, the situations – and the magick – will be true to life.

Check back soon to meet the Circle of Friends.  We hope you will enjoy these glimpses into the everyday lives of several magickal individuals.

~The Editor

The Angel Who Walked on Four Paws

The Angel Who Walked On Four Paws

By S.K.Watts © 2011

To say that a pet is ‘more than a pet’ or something greater than a wondrous bundle of surprise capable of wrapping its life force around our hearts in an instant is to know the touch of our own humanity and to marvel in the simplicity of Love.  Whether by fur or by feather, wet nose or warm muzzle, sharing time in this life with an animal spirit is a kinship most difficult to loosen when Spirit calls one or the other home.  It has been so for me.  But it is in the Remembering of our furkids as Linda calls them, that we are free to glean the wisdom our pets sprinkled throughout our lives, one spirit to another…equal in unconditional love.

When first we met, my tiny angel was in the physical realm suffering from respiratory distress due to a heart condition.  His nose was snugly nestled under the arm of my daughter who had resuscitated him at the local pet store, the water in his lungs audible from across the room as he struggled to breathe.  To this day I still see clearly the watery crystal blue eyes staring up at me that were filled with resignation.  If there is such a thing as ‘love at first sight’, this was the moment such a miracle had become.

The emergency vet informed us she would call in an hour or so when she had a better grasp of what was actually going on.  We were left no choice but to return home and contemplate our options.  When she called at midnight beginning the conversation with “I have good news and bad new concerning this puppy…” my heart skipped at least a beat or two while somewhere in the cobweb that was my brain I pondered the fact that this was not legally our dog.  Just as quickly I decided to label him an orphan and dismissed the nagging thought form.

“Give me the ‘good’ news first…” I said.  A very long pause ensued.

“He has a small chance of surviving if you can find a pet cardiac surgeon a.s.a.p.” The mind does some pretty incredible things whilst digesting information.  Mine wondered if she had ever considered standup comedy.

“And the ‘bad’ news then would be…” I was picturing his pensive eyes once more.

“He needs an open heart procedure or we need to put him down immediately.  I’ve given him some diuretic, but he is suffering.”  We knew the vet was genuinely concerned about her charge; we were both mentally calculating the responsibility of the surgery and its aftercare.  Segue to a less emergent issue…the dog technically belonged to the pet store.  We would worry about that on Monday when the store opened; it seemed a tad irrelevant at 2 am Sunday morning.

At the same instant my daughter and I informed the doc we would pick him up in the morning.  We would transfer this hopeless little creature (intravenous fluids and all…) to our own vet as soon as they opened in the morning and begin the search for the surgeon.  Whatever we would need to sacrifice to save this life would be well worth the cost.  Neither one of us slept that night, or for the three weeks to follow for that matter.

… The pet store, by the way, wondered why we did not put him down and demanded the $800 for the pup’s paperwork.  My daughter offered a renegotiation.  We would pay the $3000 medical costs and keep the dog they had attempted to sell with a heart defect that would have died alone in its cage in the dark had my daughter not intervened.  I would like to believe our offer was accepted because the store manager had a heart.

Our angel Seth would be given his name when the surgeon called to inform us he had died twice already on the table and would we like to name him before he was gone.  As I had just finished watching City of Angels, he was named Seth in sympathy with the angel who had fallen injured to earth in search of love

Seth did survive the surgery and spent time in intensive care winning the hearts of every vet and employee at the hospital.  When I came to pick him up, although my face could only have been glimpsed for a moment that first night, he sprang across the exam table and crawled up my chest, entwining his paws around my neck and nestling his face under my chin.  There are no words to describe ‘coming home’.  I learned the lesson of unconditional trust from a tiny clump of fur with a wet nose that day.

There would be restrictions over the years to come such as never being able to eat anything except wet food, not being able to run long distances, the inevitable long term issues that would present themselves due to the malabsorption, his luck of the genetic ‘draw’ prior to his conception.  However, watching Seth flourish amidst the chaos far outweighed anything that would need to be faced and handled with grace in the future, as he always managed to do.

I recall the day I realized Seth had never had the physical capability to learn to play, having been too busy always attempting to breathe and keep food down.  We still recall with fondness the day he was four months old and batted his first ball around, having learned it from his mentor Fitch the cat that shared the dog bed with him and protected him from harm.  After his digestive system had compensated to form solid stools (finally), it was hysterically comical the day of his first fart which nearly scared him to death!  He searched for his fart between all the potted plants for many days to come, reminding us of how innocent he would always be.

When Seth first met his cousin and another Husky pup (yes, we bought two more with issues so that he had company and they might be freed from their cages) he attempted to stalk them like his feline playmate, failing to comprehend the pack dog response when they in turn stalked him as prey.  The three pups were only one month apart each, and although they were twice his size in growth, they quickly learned to romp and chase bugs and they taught him to play like a dog, much to the dismay of our cat.

When the pups went as far as to ‘eat’ an entire room one day…carpet, molding, drywall, electrical…the resultant damage was several thousand in cost and two esophageal extractions for Seth.  I learned the lesson of ‘size does not matter’ that day…the finished basement a mere doggie snack to the trio.  Where was my head leaving them unattended?

Seth would from thereafter eat wet food for his entire life due to the esophageal issues related to his first two months in crisis…not the basement adventure.  He never resigned himself to this however, and his puppy years would be filled with series of esophageal extractions…dryer sheets, cat food…all due to Seth enjoying the gift of getting to be a puppy. We all gleaned the lessons of coping with what just was.

Our minds play movies of the pups running across the grass, chasing birds, getting out of the yard and being retrieved by the police since everyone knew where the three lived.  The day we were quarantined for breaking up a dog fight between two of them who had just eaten a bat just before being bitten by accident.  Until the rabies testing was completed, yellow tape draped the front door and the backyard gate.

Seth grew up to become a fine specimen of his breed, and unless you knew his medical history, would only have noticed a misshapen ankle, the little indentation along his right side.  Anyone watching the dogs drag two adults across the floor or grass would never have suspected these sled dogs weren’t all three totally normal furkids.  Only in his later years did Seth’s limp and eventual back surgery slow up his stride and strength.  Never once did he ‘complain’, always carrying himself like the gentleman and noble creature he was.

Eleven years would come and go, too quickly to live life and spend as much time as I now wish had been with my pets.  Seth was a font of love and eager excitement, always guarding the door for danger even though he could be bought for the price of a cookie.  To go on a walk was a treat, and although it tired him out and he would sometimes limp for days, he showed the neighborhood what a regal sled dog looked like in motion!  Relationships and addresses came and went, the link between our angel and his ‘pets’ remained as steadfast as the orbit of the earth.  We chalked the slowing down of his legs to older age and time, dismissing the probability that it would be his back and not his heart that would fail the test of time.

Each year that our Linda came to visit, we took a picture just in case it would be his last.  These are now the testimony to how bravely each year Seth would continue to carry on, dealing with whatever issue erupted with dignity.  Bladder lumps, seizures, limping.  Rounds of steroids, daily narcotics, heroic measures…until we must finally embrace the lesson of acceptance, and the day came when Seth could no longer stand.  Only now it seemed that the series of Linda and Seth pictures had of late, been images of an aging dog lying on a blanket.  Our Seth of earlier years had always risen like the gentleman he was to beg a kiss from the Lady Linda.  It was only now that I was having to learn the mind really does see what it wants to see most of the time.  My eyesight had become subjective instead of the necessary objectivity.

We took turns sleeping on the floor at night and doing the ‘wheelbarrow’ lifts to take Seth outside.  It was the morning I awoke to Seth having dragged himself and his blanket to the dog door, and was attempting to figure out how to crawl through the door on two legs that I learned the lesson of Unconditional Love from my beautiful angel.  Our Seth, my daughter’s ‘son’, had always been the epitome of dignity and grace.  He had always endured the physical pain, but this was mental anguish for him.  How had I not put my angel first and seen this earlier?

Three weeks and two days ago, we took Seth for the final trip to our Vet.  It had begun in hope that perhaps IV steroids might restore his strength for a time, a doggie wheelchair might be built to suit his needs… but I was grasping at straws.  My straws.  His legs were wasting by palpation and the X-ray revealed damage at too many levels to consider surgery except to selfishly buy additional time for us.

Seth had the two people who kept him alive against all odds with him when he crossed over to stand whole again upon The Rainbow Bridge.  I looked into the crystal blue eyes that won me from the very beginning of our journey together until they were closed and his spirit bid us goodbye.  It was an honor and a blessing to be with him for this journey as well.

There is little that can console when difficult decisions are must be made but the heart and mind cannot agree.  The link to a poem at the end of this little offering was sent by our angel Linda, and kept us going during a very painful time.  I asked that it be offered again for someone else who needs to read the healing words.  To avoid copyright infringement, I have provided the link to the poem rather than the text of the poem itself.

We picked our Seth’s remains up on Christmas Eve.  We buried him on Christmas in the garden, making him a shrine on the stepping stone that will bear his name.  I bid him goodnight and good morning even though I know he waits for me on The Rainbow Bridge.  Offering something I did during his life comforts me; it is silly, I know.  One of the greatest lessons Seth left behind was for my friend here in Nevada…

A devout Christian, Les has always believed we never see our pets again after this life, as we go to different places at death.  We even have an ongoing bet, laughed about for many years and through many losses of beloved pets.  If when we have both crossed over to the other side and our pets are there to meet us, she must watch all of mine when I choose to return in another life and love more pets for her to receive and care for until I return.  Because she knew and loved Seth, upon his crossing she has forever changed her belief.  She says she will be happy to watch all of my pets now should I desire to return in another life/lives.  Oh, and she will also pay me the $5 from the original bet should there be currency in the ‘hereafter’.  I cannot think of a greater lesson one tiny dog could teach during his stay in this life.

My daughter has had Seth’s paw print tattooed on her ankle.  I will continue to say Goodnight to Seth, offer assistance to the next pet in need, love the angel who graced my world and taught me strength and grace.

Many friends and family, our Vet who cried, have offered the words that Seth was ‘more than a dog’.  We thank you all.  Seth’s doggie partner Sasha who was left behind misses him daily as does Fitch the cat, his mentor who taught him to play.  We are all finding our way to smiling when we think of him.  Yet another lesson left behind for us to incorporate into our lives.

Goodnight Seth.  We love you always.  You were the Angel that walked on four paws for a time in this world, sharing your love and beautiful spirit with some mortals whose lives you touched more than you will ever know.  We will meet you on The Rainbow Bridge when Spirit calls us home as well.  Until then, happy trails to you and your new family upon the bridge…

http://petloss.com/poems/maingrp/friendto.htm

Defending Angel

Defending Angel

By Linda Monsees Stump © 2011

Usiku mkuu! Mtakatifu!
Uko utulivu;
Bikira amezaa Mwana,
Mtoto Mtakatifu ni Bwana;
Alale amanini, Alale amanini.

Janet Lyon paused in the gathering dusk.  The hauntingly beautiful strains of Silent Night emanated from the tiny village church, sung as she had never heard it before, in Swahili.  Janet had been kept so busy since her arrival in Kenya two weeks ago with the medical aid program through OxFam that she’d almost forgotten it was Christmas Eve.  Half a world away in her native Scotland, her parents would be gathered by the hearth, the scent of Christmas pudding wafting enticingly through the old house, decorated now with boughs of evergreens, holly and ivy.   She suffered a brief pang of homesickness.  The lowing of the cattle in the boma could have been part of any pastoral scene.  But the yip of a jackal far out on the savanna and the deep answering harrumph of a male lion emphasized the fact that she was far from home on this night.  Yet somehow the familiar carol, sung in such an exotic place and language, gave her a sense of peace.  And over all loomed the serene majesty of Kilimanjaro.

 Usiku mtuu! Mtakatifu!
Wachunga wa hofu;
Waliogopa kuwaona
Malaika walipoimba;
Kristo amezaliwa, Kristo amezaliwa.

Usiku mkuu! Mtakatifu!
Ni Mwana wa Mungu;
Ametuletea neema,
Ili tukae na salama;
Yesu Kristo Mwokozi, Yesu Kristo Mwokozi.

 Janet became aware that she was not the only outsider enjoying the impromptu concert.  A white man who looked to be in his mid-thirties and dressed for the bush in khakis and sturdy boots stood in the shadows of the church.  He showed up in the village a few days after her own arrival, and it was said that he was on a backpacking trip in the bush.  Janet thought she’d heard the headman call him Malachi.  He was tall with dark gold hair and would have been devastatingly handsome but for a physical deformity that gave him the appearance of a hunchback.  Still, the disability didn’t seem to affect him physically; he was very fit and Janet had seen him easily lift a hundred pound sack of grain.

Their eyes met and the man said easily, “Good evening, Dr. Lyon.  I’m afraid we haven’t met formally, but I know who you are – you’re doing some fantastic work here. ”

“Thank you – there’s so much more to be done, but I’m enjoying it tremendously and the people are so amazing.”   She paused.  “You’re Malachi, aren’t you?”

“Close enough,” he responded, somewhat enigmatically.

“I’m terribly sorry – did I get your name wrong?  I thought that’s what Jahi called you.” Janet was suddenly embarrassed.

“It’s really Michael – but Malachi will do just fine if you wish.”  His smile was roguish.  “Besides, out here names seem somewhat irrelevant, don’t you think, Dr. Lyon?”

“Please – my friends call me Jenny.  Dr. Lyon sounds very formal – and I don’t even know your last name to maintain the formality.”  Janet knew she was floundering.  She’d been absorbed in her work for so long she’d not taken the time for social small talk.  She hadn’t realized quite how isolated she was.

Michael seemed not to notice.  He grinned at her.  “If you wish, Jenny – I’d like to think of myself as a friend.”

Janet was silent for a moment before answering his previous question.  “It’s the land, I think – it somehow dwarfs us mere mortals.  The Kikuyu say the gods make their home on Kilimanjaro, and seeing it – even at a distance – one could believe it.”

“You are a remarkable woman.  You came here to help, but you don’t have the attitude that these people are somehow inferior because they haven’t had the advantages of living in what the modern world refers to as ‘civilization’.”

“I grew up in the Highlands of Scotland – there are some fairly remote places there, too.  Some of my colleagues in London think I came from the back of beyond!”  Janet shrugged.  “I suppose I just accept people as I find them.  I can’t expect people to trust me as a doctor if I don’t treat them with respect and equal trust.”

“You’ve certainly achieved that here.  Everyone I’ve spoken to has only good to say about you.  And the children adore you.  I watched you this afternoon with the little girls, letting them play with your hair.”  In the fading light, his hand traced the myriad of tiny plaits threaded through the red-gold waves that fell to her waist.

“I adore them, too,” Janet murmured, glad it was too dim to see the color that flooded her cheeks at the thought that he’d been observing her when she wasn’t aware.

 

“Daktari Simba!  Daktari Simba!”  Janet couldn’t help smiling at the way the Kikuyu had misinterpreted her surname, calling her by the Swahili equivalent of “Doctor Lion”.  The flash of Michael’s teeth told her he was equally amused.  Her smile quickly faded as she caught sight of the boy who raced toward her, tears streaming down his face.  It was the ten-year-old son of Bashira, one of the women in the village who had become a good friend.  “You come, Daktari Simba!”

“Faraji, what is it?  What’s wrong – is someone hurt?”

Faraji unleashed a torrent of Swahili, so rapid that all Janet could pick out were the words “Adia” and “gonjwa” – sick.  Adia was Faraji’s six-year-old sister, a beautiful, sweet-natured little girl with liquid dark eyes and an enchanting smile.  Her name meant “gift” – and she was aptly named.

“Tafadhali sema polepole – please, speak more slowly.  Adia is sick?”

Faraji nodded.  “Ndiyo – yes.”

“Can you tell me if she has a fever?  Does her stomach hurt?”  Janet questioned Faraji gently.

But the child was so upset that he could only repeat “Adia – gonjwa!” before lapsing into Kikuyu, none of which Janet could understand.

She tried again.  “Can your father carry Adia to the clinic?  I have medicines there.”

Faraji shook his head violently.  “Daktari Simba – you come.  Epesi – quick!”

“They won’t want to come in the dark.”  It was Michael who spoke.  Janet had almost forgotten about him in the urgency of the moment.  “Aside from the lions in the bush, there are the t’era shifta.”

Janet had been in the remote village long enough to know that the inhabitants typically did stay indoors after dark.  Small groups of roaming bandits terrorized the local villages; and poachers who butchered elephants for their ivory and lions for their heads and claws wouldn’t hesitate to kill to silence witnesses to their depredations.  But what if it’s serious? Janet thought, frightened for the child.  She was confident in her own skills, but…How can I treat Adia in a tin and brush hut without proper lighting and no electricity?

Aloud she said calmly, “It will be all right, Faraji.  Come with me and I’ll get my medical bag.”  Faraji followed her to the makeshift clinic the physicians had created just past the church.  Janet hoped that whatever ailed the child could be dealt with at Bashira’s home; otherwise they could lose precious time carrying her back to the clinic.  She would have welcomed the assistance of her colleague, but Dr. Kivuva had taken the Land Rover and driven into Nairobi to spend Christmas Eve with friends.  Janet quickly packed as many supplies as she could fit into her medical bag, and snatched up her rucksack.

It was full dark as she and Faraji came out of the clinic to find Michael waiting for her.  In the small church, the singing had stopped.  Without waiting for her to speak, he said, “I’m going with you.  You may need an extra pair of hands.”

Whatever protest she might have made died on her lips.  He was right.  She had no idea what she was dealing with yet.  There were too many causes of child mortality in Kenya; chief among them malaria and diarrheal disease.  And if Michael was indeed backpacking alone in the bush, he was probably capable of keeping a cool head in an emergency.

Faraji led the way at a rapid jog with Janet following and Michael bringing up the rear.  Once away from the lighted church and clinic, the inky blackness was so complete that Janet could only just see the pale splotch of Faraji’s shirt ahead of her.  Their footsteps swished through the dried grass as they ran; once Janet thought she heard an echoing sound off to their right, but decided it was her senses playing tricks on her.  It seemed to take forever to reach the home of Bashira and her husband Ibada.

Inside, the smoke of the open fire made Janet’s eyes water as her vision adjusted from the darkness outside.  Bashira sat on the dirt floor, rocking Adia in her arms, tears rolling down her cheeks. The child was ominously still.  Ibada stood impassively near the doorway, but his eyes were filled with pain.  He drew Faraji to his side.   “Blessed Bride, please help me now,” Janet murmured in Gaelic.  It was something she did almost unconsciously before any procedure.  In Scotland, St. Bride was long known as the patron saint of healing, poetry and smithcraft.

She reached to take Adia from Bashira, who kept rocking even though she no longer held her daughter.  “I will do everything I can, Bashira – I promise.”  Janet kept her voice soothing and calm as she went about taking the child’s vitals.  Adia’s face was flushed and she burned with fever, but there was no sign of the jaundice that would indicate malaria.  “When did Adia become ill?”

“This morning.  Yesterday she was fine – she ran, she played, she came with me to water the cattle.  Today she would not eat, would not drink.”

Gently Janet palpated the child’s stomach.  “Has she vomited?  Had diarrhea?”  The last question was simply pro forma; they would have known before they entered the hut if Adia had contracted diarrheal disease.

Bashira shook her head.  Janet continued her exam.  She drew back the threadbare blanket covering the little girl’s legs and bit her lip.  Adia’s right leg was swollen, the skin grotesquely taut from ankle to knee.  A cut on her lower calf that had begun to scab over had now broken open and was oozing blood and pus.

Bashira gasped and uttered a broken cry.  “There was no swelling this morning!  I thought it was the fever so I tried to keep her warm…”

“Did she go wading at all when you watered the cattle?” Janet broke in.

Bashira thought for a moment.  “She splashed a little, but I made her stop because of what you told us about water that is not running water.  That it can be…contaminated.”  She pronounced the unfamiliar word with the accent on the first syllable.  The tears were still rolling down her lovely face.  “Will my baby die?”

“Not if I can help it,” Janet answered, laying Adia gently back in her mother’s arms.  “I’m going to give her some medicine that will help her body fight the infection.  It’s an antibiotic called erythromycin.  I’ll have to make a small incision in her leg to drain the infection.”  Bashira nodded, her dark eyes fixed trustingly on Janet as she sterilized the skin on Adia’s leg.  She scrubbed as best she could with hot water from a clay pot in the coals and pulled on surgical gloves.  The little girl’s eyes fluttered open and she whimpered.

Janet spoke reassuringly.  “It’s all right, Adia.  I’m going to take care of you.  Can you be very still for me?”  Adia nodded.  “That’s my brave girl!  This might sting a little at first, but it will relieve the pressure on your leg.”  While she was talking, Janet made the incision and began the drain.  Adia flinched, but it was over before she could cry.  Janet kept talking.  “This medicine is going to take away the infection that made you sick.  You’ll have to take it for the next several days, but this is made especially for children and it tastes sweet, like cherries.”  The child took the antibiotic obediently.

Intent on her patient, Janet ignored the sudden commotion in the doorway.  Only Bashira’s scream made her head jerk up.  Ibada was struggling ferociously with two men, one of whom held a panga.  Blood dripped down Ibada’s forearm and onto the dirt floor of the hut.  A third man materialized and raised a pistol.  With a single movement he smashed the butt of the gun against Ibada’s temple.  Bashira wailed as her husband crashed to the ground and lay still.

“Quiet mwanamke!” the man with the gun ordered.  He motioned with the weapon.  “Money.  Food.  Give it to us now and we may let you live.”

“You killed my father!”  Faraji spat and launched himself at the man.

Before Janet could react, the bandit cuffed the boy casually, knocking him senseless.  Fear tightened her stomach.  It was clear these men had no qualms about killing.  “A Dhia, a Mhicheal bhcannaichu, dion sinn,” Janet breathed the old prayer, reverting to the Gaelic of the Highlands.

Michael, crouched behind Janet to hand her anything she needed, stood.  Janet shook her head, trying to warn him.  The bandit with the gun turned the barrel toward Michael.  There was no way he could get past her and reach the thieves before he was shot.

“Money.  Food,” the gunman repeated his demand.  “Give us all you have and you may live.”

“We have no money,” Bashira pleaded.  “The food is in that tin chest.”

The thief with the panga snatched the chest up and opened it.  He said something to the third man.  They spoke in an unfamiliar language that was neither Swahili nor Kikuyu.  Janet thought it might be Somali.  They seemed to be arguing.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Faraji move.  He was still alive, thank God!  She had to do something to keep the bandits’ attention from the boy – but what?  She shifted slightly, easing the cramp in her foot.  Firelight glinted on her red-gold hair and her movement caught the glance of the man with the panga.  He pointed the blood-stained blade at Janet, then at her medical bag.  “You have money there?”

“No – those are medical supplies.”

The gunman motioned to her.  “You – daktari?” This time the word was in Swahili.

Janet nodded.  “Yes, I’m a doctor.”

“You come with us.”

Janet’s green eyes flashed dangerously.  “When I have finished caring for my patient.”

“You will come with us.  Now – or I kill the child.”  He pointed the gun at Adia’s head.  The little girl’s eyes were wide with terror, but she made no sound.  Bashira bent over her daughter, trying to shield the child with her body.

“Enough!”  Janet’s voice cut like a whip.  “You will not harm her!  If you need a doctor, I will go with you – but I will care for Adia first.  Otherwise you can shoot me now and be damned!”

The gun barrel swung toward her as the bandit snarled something she didn’t understand.  She raised her head defiantly, determined that these cutthroats would not see her beg.  All at once the three men stumbled backward, their faces suddenly ashen.  They stared, not at Janet, but at something behind and above her.  One of them emitted a high, keening wail; the other two began gibbering with fear.  The man with the panga dropped it.  A dark stain appeared down the front of the gunman’s trousers as he wet himself in fright, the weapon slipping from his shaking hands.  Then, nearly trampling each other in their haste, the t’era shifta fled screaming into the night.

Ibada stirred and groaned.  Thankfully he, too, still lived.  Bashira wept, this time with relief and gratitude.  “Asante.  Asante sana, Malaika wa ulinzi.”

Janet turned her head and her breath caught.

Michael stood above her, glowing with a bright white light that turned his hair to burnished gold, a gleaming sword raised in his right hand.  His wings spread protectively over her.  No longer the hunchbacked hiker, this was the archangel in all his glory, her prayer come to life.  A Mhicheal bhcannaichu, dion sinn – blessed Michael defend us.

“Thank you,” she murmured simply.  The words seemed totally inadequate, and Janet felt absurdly close to tears herself.  The majestic wings enfolded her, bringing a sense of peace and safety she hadn’t felt in a long time.

 

Much later, after Janet had tended both Ibada’s and Faraji’s injuries, and Adia was resting comfortably, Janet and Michael took their leave.  “Kuwa na Krismasi njema – Merry Christmas!” Bashira’s good wishes followed them into the darkness.

Stars twinkled in the velvet blackness, and they walked in silence for a while.  Then Michael asked, “Are you all right, Jenny?”

“Yes, thanks to you.  You saved my life.  ” She paused.  Was it presumptuous or even somehow blasphemous to call an archangel by name, even though they had spoken as friends before?  What was the proper form of address?  Bashira’s words came back to her:  Malaika wa ulinzi – defending angel – along with the realization that the name she had earlier misinterpreted as Malachi was, in fact Malaika.  Jahi knew.

As though divining her thoughts, Michael said, “We are still friends, Jenny.   I hope you will still call me by name.”

Janet flushed.  “I – I’m not exactly accustomed to meeting archangels, Michael…I don’t know quite how to act.”

Michael chuckled, and a wing brushed her shoulder.  “That’s what I like about you, Jenny – you are so refreshingly honest.”

“Since you seem to know exactly what I’m thinking, how can I be anything but honest with you?”  She took a deep breath.  “I hope you won’t take this wrong, but I have to ask – why did you wait to reveal yourself until the t’era shifta threatened me?  I thought those men had killed Ibada and Faraji – and they would have killed Adia and Bashira!”

Janet heard the amusement in his voice.  “I knew Ibada and Faraji were safe.”

“But I didn’t!” she couldn’t help protesting.

“That’s right, you didn’t.” Michael’s voice turned serious.  “And this was really about you.”

“I don’t understand.  What was about me?”

“You would have gone with the t’era shifta tonight – knowing that they would kill you.”

“Well, yes… I’m a doctor, Michael – I took an oath to go where I’m needed.”  She tried to explain.  “I’m bound by my oath to use what skill I have to help as I’m able.”

Michael nodded.  “You have chosen a path full of challenges, Jenny.  You are passionate about what you do and you have proven that you put the welfare of others before your own.  You will put yourself in harm’s way rather than go back on your promise.”

The clinic loomed ahead of them and it occurred to Janet to wonder why Michael had not resumed his mortal disguise.

Again he answered her unspoken question.  “I must go, Jenny.  My job here is finished, but I will never be far away.  I will always be there when you call for me.”  Once more Janet was enfolded within the wings of the archangel.

The church bells rang midnight.  Michael released her and stepped back.  He appeared , once more glowing with glorious light, then he was gone.

And from the church the jubilant voices burst into the triumphant Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.

Waimba, sikizeni,
Malaika mbinguni;
Wimbo wa tamu sana
Wa pendo zake Bwana;
“Duniani salama,
Kwa wakosa rehema.”
Sisi sote na twimbe
Nao wale wajumbe;
Waimba, sikizeni,
Malaika mbinguni.

Janet stood alone in the darkness of Christmas morning, her heart full.  A Mhicheal bhcannaichu, moran taing.  Blessed Michael, thank you.

The Winter Angel

This season our Writers’ Night Out group joins to bring you The Winter Angel.  As Yule/Christmas is a time when we see representations of angels everywhere in holiday decorations, I thought it would be fun to write a story about angelic intervention in the life of a fictional character.  To make the project interesting, there were a few parameters:

1. The angel can appear as male or female;
2. The angel can solve the character’s problems but
3. Only if the person’s intent is pure and
4. The angel will not simply leave bushels of money or pots of gold as a solution – this is an angel, not a leprechaun!
5. The angel provides the answers and the opening for the solution – taking action is up to the character.
6. Everyone’s story must have a lesson.

We hope you will enjoy these stories as they are posted and wish you all the blessings of the season.

Happy Winter Solstice!

Just a Thought: A Cord of Color to Carry into the Winter Months

Just a Thought:  A Cord of Color to Carry into the Winter Months

by Lady Walking Turtle (c) 2011

This last year I pledged to capture each month the colors presented each season which seem to be gone as swiftly as they arrived.  Life being the continuous dance of drama and surprise which upstages even the best of well laid plans, I find Samhain rapidly approaching and alas, the Cord of Color woven in October still resides on my camera card.  Luckily for me, as the desert changes seasons less abruptly as the home of our writing group, instead of dwelling on my tardiness I will upload the image of said cord while the visual vibrations which inspired it still bloom on my front porch.

Once more the following experience is humbly offered as a vehicle for some personal alchemy; the creation of a Cord of Color for this Season, perhaps the muse for many seasons to follow.  Please feel free to change the images or colors to suit your area and your own hopes and dreams.  Remember that energy does not die or fade, but is recycled then ‘re-presented’ upon new canvases for the mind to ponder in awe.  The visual energy that is Color dances between the seasons and remains vibrant and young within our memories and our hearts…and is most vivid when augmented by wonder and awe.     _____________________________________

If you believe that everything is connected to everything else within the Cosmic Web, then how we choose to recall precious moments and package them for the journey through time and space is no small matter, but one that must seize the moments of the season as they have been offered to us.  Collecting salt and pepper shakers has continued a fond hobby that my mother thought as precious to her as the keepsakes that were left to me when she crossed beyond the veil.  Perhaps braiding Cords of Color each season will be a precious memory my daughter and my friends will continue on when those things close to my heart are bequeathed to them in turn.

Once more allow me to reflect upon the concepts that messages in bottles or written thoughts passed down through inheritance are much akin to a painting that never progressed from being a ‘work in progress’ because the finale will not happen for yet another life.  Since the decision to welcome versus wallow in dismay concerning my upcoming sixtieth birthday, there comes the opportunity to cherish more deeply the sands in my own hour glass.  Therefore, no longer will I squander any of these tiny grains within my own procrastination, dramas undeserving of special attention, or in lieu of becoming lost in Jane Austen’s works of art.  I vow this new year to spend my hours lost within my own ‘works in progress’ (on many levels) which will be tweaked or even down right battled if needs be to the finish line.

     Having begun this affirmation directly following the paragraph above by prying open my camera, I find that the tiny chip within offers proof that in the month of October was captured in such a perfusion of the season’s colors contained most efficiently within one single bush.  Even more astounding was the fact that despite my lack of green thumb, the little ‘tree in progress’ flourished and took center stage over the entire front yard, offering its joy and awe to life the spirits and become the envy of the Nature that surrounded it.  A ‘two-fer’; the image not only carries the visual energies I will certainly lien upon in the coming weeks, but provides visual proof that plant practiced the Gift of Economy.

     My own messages in a bottle will be from here on out, in the form of cords of Color entwined by moments of living life.  This October, I honored Leaf Green, Burnt Orange, and Butter Yellow while only subliminally understanding the little tree on my porch had become my muse.  It was only when I required a background to compliment my braided cord did I come to understand the sympathy and magick within the endeavor.  These were the exact colors of my childhood memories of growing up in Michigan. They represented the late summers and early Falls, and preceded the coming snowfalls.  Spirit I think, reminds us of thoughts and feelings lost amongst decades of time, and I had been offered a most precious morsel to tweak yet a few more very special memories that afternoon.  It was a good day.

My Little Blueprint for Color Cording

Timing: Whenever the visual energies around you are the most brilliant, but before the end of any month as the visual vibrations change as quickly as the Moon moves through Her phases.  If you feel the need to plan the creation of your Cord of Color (which you already mapped out in theory in a past life or by way of the combined energies of others up to this point…) in an auspicious planetary presentation, go for it.  My cords will be filled simply with the wonder and awe, on whichever day The Ceremony of the Dawn nudges me to braid within my thoughts and dreams.

Supplies:  The energies of your muse or inspirations will also dictate the medium and shades or hues in which you will create your own ‘signature’ blend.  Just like painting, you are the artist and it is through your eyes and your thoughts that the threads of time and color will unite.  Keep it simple; One color each for the past/present/future influence you will weave into your own web, capturing the light and life of each just as the spider catches the butterfly in flight.  (No animals were harmed in the creation of this working, we are visualizing here).  Embroidery yarn or knitting yarn then in each of the three colors chosen, a nail or peg on which to form a loop before weaving, a written charm of your choosing, a White candle (the presence of all color visible by the mortal eye), a small bowl of water, a bowl of sand/salt/ or dirt, a feather of a bird who frequents your area, herbs of consecration of your choosing; I like to gather Eucalyptus as purity of thought, Sage for protection, Nutmeg for variety, Allspice for abundance, Salt for our Life’s force, Mint for prosperity. Note: A simple handful of Salt is sufficient for both protection and to represent the presence of all Color. One good rattle or drum.

Note:  If you make a small cord out of embroidery thread, it can be carried in a pocket, small purse, wallet…all without notice except to you.  Larger yarns or ribbons can become substantial tools to work with daily and use to adorn magickal tools, clothing, rest on your altar.  I am hanging mine on the wall to remind me of what will return with the season in which it was inspired.

The Actual Weaving…

A Hammer, a peg or nail that becomes a part of a post or wall which will stabilize the loop of yarn or thread you will weave…a branch of a tree or a table leg works quite well without risking your nail finding a water pipe behind the wall and an expensive plumbing bill!  (Don’t ask…maybe in another offering…)

Ground and Center; do breathe in the Colors of the Season as you do…

Cast a Sacred Circle…

Call the Quarters if you desire…

Invoke Deity and visualize yourself being surrounded by a perfect Rainbow…

Speak to Spirit, from your heart voice your sincerest desires…offer wonder and awe…

Light the White Candle and reflect upon the Colors that will fill the space around you…

Close your eyes and align your Memory with the visual energies of your chosen Colors, spend some time meditating on the blending of the Warm Colors of the season…

When you can ‘see’ the Colors with which you will weave these moments and feelings with both your eyes open and closed…take three deep cleansing breaths…

Begin construction of your Color Cord:

     >Measure out the three Color strands to each be thirteen inches and ‘cut the skein’

     >Fold the three strands in half and form a knot a loop to slip upon the peg or nail to stabilize the weaving

     >Begin to braid the three strands as you would a lock of hair; the left ‘pulling from the Past’, the right ‘pulling from the Future’ over the center each time which representing the ‘Present’.  As you weave, chant the following:

“Cord of Abundance, Cord of Power and Might; Fill me with the Energy of Color, Clear within my sight!

Cord of Brilliance, Cord of Power and Might, Capture the power of Visual Energy       which will span a lifetime and reform within the future’s Light!”

  >When you have run out of fibers to braid, tie off your cord with a knot, leave the lengths as they have arrived…

  >Pass your cord through each of the Elements asking each of the energies in turn to protect your Color Cord throughout time…

  >Consecrate your Cord, dedicate it to Deity and crush the sacred herb(s) over and upon your woven memory…

  >Hold your cord over your Third Eye and Chant the charm above three times…

  >Envision the Colors you have woven into your lives with both your open eyes and within your mind…

  >Drum or rattle as you raise the energies of your ‘time capsule’ within those of the Rainbow that still surrounds you…

  >Sit quietly with your Cord and reflect upon the present and the joy and awe that now fill your heart…

  >Thank Deity…

  >Thank and dismiss the quarters…

  >Send the energies of the Circle and of The Rainbow into your Cord of Color…

  >Wrap your cord within white tissue paper and keep it with your most cherished belongings, instruct your family you wish to cherish it always and pass it down throughout the families that will follow…

  >You may unwrap and revisit the energies of your cord whenever you feel the need to replenish, recharge or to remember.  You may re-dedicate your cord anytime you feel the need or wish to bring its energies into your workings…

  Note: You will revisit your Cord of Color frequently in the coming months were color is temporarily lost to us.  You will be thankful to have harvested your unique and memorable color palate when a bit of it lives within your circle of life.  You will become transformed as you seek the quest to keep the colors you love within your world regardless of the weather or where ever you may go throughout the year.

Of note: I will have constructed several of these Color Cord ‘time capsules’ within this life.  Each contains different energies, not only dependent upon the colors of the seasons, but also due to the nuances that age, wisdom, experience, events surrounding it…all that reflection and refraction instills within it. I fully expect that when I am sad or down trodden in a future month, unwrapping the particular cord of color that will be oppose the energies of the former, the result will be at least a smile and at best a first layer of personal alchemy which lifts my spirit to find yet another muse.  I will lift up my eyes to search for the next inspiration which will most certainly exist in front of me.

 It’s just a thought, but perhaps believing we are already shaping our future is how it once was, still is, and will be again.  To hope is to actively reach toward the Light.  Become the Color, become the wonder.  Happy Trails to you all throughout the coming months.  May the sands in your hour glass be blessed and filled with the awe of Color and Light.

Circle of Thyme – Mystery

Circle of Thyme – Mystery

By Linda Monsees Stump © 2011

October…the trees are clothed in the scarlets, oranges and golds of their autumn finery.  Fallen leaves whirl in a spiral dance to the music of a stray gust of wind.  The nights are getting colder and the moon peers fitfully from behind cobwebby clouds.  It is a glorious month when the natural world is at its most spectacular, yet there is the feeling of nature turning in on itself in preparation for the coming winter.

There is a sense of mystery in the air, the nearness of those who have gone before.  The ancients believed that Samhain was the time when the veil between the worlds was at its thinnest, and the spirits of the departed could be contacted.  My thoughts drift often to my parents, who crossed over many years ago.  Perhaps it is having recently moved back to my home, a house my mother really liked and in which she knew I would be happy, but I find myself drawn to the physical reminders of my parents.  Unpacking photos and notes, and enjoying the furniture my father made, bring them especially close at this time.

Of course, our resident ghost has also made her presence known when I was unloading the last of our things from the storage unit.  Because we were in the process of introducing a new cat to the house, we kept the middle bedroom door firmly closed – not locked, but you couldn’t just push it open, you had to actually turn the doorknob.  I had just carried a large tote upstairs to take to the attic, which is accessed off this bedroom.  I shifted the tote to my hip and just as I reached for the doorknob, the door opened on its own.  Someone was very clearly lending a hand, so I walked in and said, “Thank you!” before proceeding up to the attic.  I’ve never actually been sure who this resident spirit is, although I do know it is not my mother.  My mum and dad have both been in touch after their passing, but in very different ways.  This spirit is a little stern, but she is a rather benevolent, grandmotherly type.  Our first encounter with her was a little alarming until I realized what we were dealing with, but I’ve never felt threatened by her.  I simply get the feeling that this was her home once, she loves it here – as I do – and she doesn’t really want to leave.  We don’t have a problem with that, but I’d love to know more about her.

It seems fitting then, that our Writers’ Night Out word of the month for October is “mystery.”  It seems that I have a mystery of my own to solve.  This winter I may finally find the time to delve more deeply into the history of my house.  Hopefully I will discover who our spirit is and what happened to her.  Perhaps she has a story to tell.