White Owl Island

The inside of the meditation tent was still and quiet and surprisingly empty of people. It was very humid and full of butterflies. They were so varied vivid green, blue, patterned. In the middle of the tent was a large hole with a sign saying “Short cut to the Potting Shed enter with care”. It was a very large hole and you couldn’t really see into it.

“Should I risk it,” I asked myself as I took a very yoga type breath. I looked into my walnut, was there anything within that could assist me. The wooden Owl spoke- “Take out the anchor and think on its meaning.”

“Anchors, what do anchors do.” They moor ships. They hook into sea beds. I looked closely at my anchor and had the sensation of seeing the history of anchors. E’s gift was indeed mysterious to have this effect.

The anchor spoke

The charming of the plough is so fitting for an anchor
For there are plough anchors that grip into the mud
I am sometimes a fisherman the anchor you know best
Or I can simply be a hook or even a mushroom
Once I was just a rock floating in the sea.

Yet there are other anchors travelers seek.
Those virtues that stop us floating out in the torrid
Seas of strife and keep us firm as the waves of tests come
Threatening to set humanity adrift
Values like ancient rocks moor us to the sea of everlasting life.

I paused and threw my tiny anchor into the hole as if it was the ocean. My tiny anchor became heavy and it pulled me down with it. I closed my eyes as the butterflies followed me into the short cut. It was strange to feel them all around me. As I opened my eyes I realized that I was for a brief time a caterpillar and then a butterfly. My time was short but brilliant. I was so comfortable with my butterfly wings then I became Unity again, and was standing in the centre of the potting shed.

How wondrous it was,  just like a lolly shop but for gardeners. Potting shed indeed,you know it was also like a green house, full of so many flowers and plants that were being repotted- and full of cuttings.

There were plants that did not look like plants I was used to, but were constructed out of objects. Artistic sculptural plants like a small tree made out of old furniture pieces, and a tree made out of wire and crystals. “Hello is anyone else here,” I said. “Ah you came through the short cut,” murmured an old man with a green turban who reminded me of an ancient tree he was so still and his hands so gnarled.

“So child… show me those seeds then and I will let you know how to nurture them,” he answered before I had even asked the question.

“Who are you?”

“I my child am the father of those two angels from the cave…”

© June Perkins words and image all rights reserved

© Potting Shed idea Soul Food

For more information on anchors go to - On Anchors

I’ve been meaning to plant my seeds from my adventure in the cave days- and wondering what to nurture them with.   I thought maybe magic coconut milk, but then I heard there might be a potting shed on Owl Island and some specialists in my kind of seed. So I’ve put them safely in my pocket and I am wondering if someone on that island can give me some advice on the best way to grow them.

Oh wow, you should see Owl Island.   I have to pinch myself to believe I am really here at last.  So much has happened to me since the visit to the dining room and library.  I told Dido and two of the passengers who had hitched a ride on her with me the whole story.  I am sure they want to put duct tape on me now.

Turned out that the lady with the mysterious brief case was Isabella Maranderella a witch of darkness. I’ve been wondering who she might be in league with. Isabella gave me an absolute whipping when we had our kite fight and  insisted that this meant I owed her some coconut facials.

I was happy to help her out but her competitiveness became wearing over the days in the lead up to Owl Island disembarking.  She had to win at everything.   Everyone was steering clear of me whilst Isabella was in my company. I think maybe they knew to avoid her type.

I had to ditch her somehow on some other innocent passenger perhaps – well it just wasn’t in my heart to do that, but I did finally manage to send her off to the Meadow Room hinting that maybe she could have a lovely rest there and look up Descartes an interesting bunny.

As I stand here waiting to go to the Festival of the Charming of the plough I am not in anyway scared of the warriors, no I am just relieved to know that Isabella is sorting herself out in the Meadow Room instead of forcing me into more competitions.

I have been armed with the most ornately carved owl. It’s tiny and tied around my neck, and was given to me by the shell of prophecy to help me on this island.
“Conflicted relationships are not problems . . . but opportunities for creative expression.”
“The owl’s task is not judge or moralise on the correctness of her enemies behaviour but to respond with creativity and intelligence.” (The Way of the Owl p.24).

I am missing Speck though, he’s staying behind on this particular trip – my tiny (sometimes wooden) owl advisor said he had to keep watch over the ship with some of the other stowaways…

I am giggling to myself. The laughter around me is falling like soft petals. It lands, cascades and lands again. It is sweet because there is also a tinge of sadness in everyone’s hearts at present.

Do you know I am sure I can hear those two cheeky angels giggling during the Charming of the Plough.   I think I can glimpse them in the crowd, their garlands safely intact around their heads. The crowd is just too big to be sure.

Do you know its the first time I’d seen some of the passengers of the SS Vulcania as many of them like to spend a lot of time painting, writing, cooking, and planning dragon hunting expeditions in their cabins- I do see some in the library and that is a good place to chat. It was fantastic to see them so full of joy. Some have had heard news, bought by the SS Vulcania pigeons, about terrible fires and floods that may have claimed their relatives or friends, and they are even considering hopping off the boat for a few days to make their way home for more news.   E has assured them that the ship’s pigeons can  go back and fetch news and they are free to make up their own minds as to what to do.   The Eagles can also be sent with emergency supplies for those in the bushfires. The whole ship did a whip around and filled a magic black hat with lots of gifts, including toys and jewels and charm bags.

I’m waving at Elizabeth- she’s a woman on a mission that one,  I do wonder if she’ll find that tree she is looking for, and all those  scrolls.

I can hear a few other pilgrims to this festival engaged in some prayers. They are walking a labryinth made of stones and rose petals. It seems any one of us can make our way there.  It is a poignant sight as I am sure some of them are praying their friends and family are alive, or at peace wherever they are.

First I have to drop off my coconut rice and biscuits on the wondrous table of potluck food.  It doesn’t seem right to have coconut rice aromas weaving around the rose, the stones, the prayers and tears. But now I see the rose jam on the table, rose jam wow that must be so interesting tasting…

I am off to walk the circle of stones, on the way to the prayer circle and notice that the rose petals are all colours, apricot, plum, ochre, creamy and in the middle of the prayer circle is a tent.  It has been put up by those who enter the circle first.

I move to the circle, and a young boy places an ochre dot of earth on my head, then a young girl puts rose water on my cheeks. The rose water feels like tears for all those suffering the world.

I begin my way to the tent in the centre.

I concentrate on going to the centre, but cannot help but look back. The young boy and girl have left and have been replaced by a wolf and a raven. I cannot see the rest of the Festival. Where am I?

I look forward and there is the tent and on either side of it are two large kauri pines. The girl and boy are in the centre near the tent and have begun to dance around one of the trees.

I can hear the most amazing songs…. and these continue all the way until I reach the entrance of the tent. Oh what wondrous songs. I will remember them for many, many days.   For now they settle into me, soothe me, as they have those who have walked before me.

(c) Words and Images all rights reserved June Perkins
(c) Descartes to Travels with Rilla
(c) Elizabeth to Rosy her creator

For more of this adventure head to Unity’s Cabin

Dear Cissy,
There is much to tell. Last night’s festivities were splendid indeed! The ritual for the Charming of the Plough was magical to say the least. It was decided upon that our group would join together when presenting our offering. We set off from the harbour along a narrow country lane. Along the way we met a gentleman out for an early evening stroll with his sheepdog. The man, dressed in tweed knickerbockers suggested that we follow the lane for a mile or so where we would happen upon an old wooden stile. I had some difficulty in mounting the stile in my dress as you can imagine and rather annoyingly laddered my stockings. I was shocked when Jack suggested that I remove them altogether but had to agree that it seemed the sensible thing to do and so there I was in the middle of a field, doing the unthinkable!

We walked until we found ourselves confronted by a derelict farmhouse with pastures on all sides. Some of the fields were of a deep green, lush and others danced with rows of golden wheat, still warm from the sun. This was the perfect place to perform our ritual. In low tones we chanted, beseeching the Land Spirits to bless the soil, then crumbled our pieces of bread before us. The wind whispered as if the spirits had acknowledged our plea.

I decided not to turn back with the others, preferring to stay and meditate in solitude. The sky was beginning to darken and so Jack insisted that he remain with me. I stilled myself, which was nigh on impossible under the circumstances. Having Jack in such close proximity was rather distracting. I breathed slowly in and out, focusing on the rhythm of my breathing as L’Enchanteur had taught me. When I felt ready I turned and began to retrace my steps to the harbour in silence. I did not speak again until we neared the site of the Potluck dinner, quieting all of Jack’s attempts at conversation. The beach before us was alive with music and laughter. I waved to a few of my new friends from the Vulcania – Unity, wearing her trademark hibiscus in her hair, Sue dressed in a fairy costume, complete with cardboard wand and balancing a large dish of Cauliflower Cheese to rival our dear cook’s.

I turned my face to Jack and laughed at the frivolity surrounding us.
‘Tomorrow we must find someone to take us to the copse of Living Trees. According to the journal, the trees are home to the White Owl and are guarded by a powerful Lemurian Warrior. Only the pure of heart may gain access to the copse.’

Jack nodded in agreement and taking my hand, led me toward the festivities.

Elizabeth.

A PRAYER AS I SCATTER THESE BREAD CRUMBS…

As the yeast is to this bread

So is the soil to the earth -

Both vital agents on which the other depends.

Oh Bread of Life and Mother Earth,

May God bless these agents

So that you may grow to your full potential.

celticsea

The SS Vulcania is arriving at White Owl Island in time for the Charming of the Plow festival. The residents of Owl Island perform traditional agricultural rituals as a part of their celebrations on February 14th. This it the time when grain crates are offered for the soil’s fertility, and Father Sky and Mother Earth are invoked to that end.

When you embark at Owl Island meditate upon your dependence on the soil, and, along with others crumble upon the soil a piece of bread (natural or homemade of course). As you crumble the bread call upon  the Land Spirits to heal the Earth and to keep it safe from harm. This ceremony will be of particular import to Victorians who have just witnessed the most savage razing of the earth as a result of destructive wild fires.

A potluck dinner will follow the ritual. Passengers of the SS Vulcania and guests  are encouraged to bring a dish to share and are welcome to bring offerings for the spirits who watch over Owl Island.

After the potluck dinner there will be a Gala Costume Ball in honour of White Owl.

Responses to the Festival should be posted here on White Owl Island. Passengers will, obviously, keep copies of their work in their cabins to preserve their journey on the SS Vulcania.

A potluck dinner will follow the ritual. Passengers of the SS Vulcania and guests are encouraged to bring a dish to share and are welcome to bring offerings for the spirits who watch over Owl Island.

After the potluck dinner there will be a Gala Costume Ball in honour of White Owl.

Passengers should file all art and writing relating to this under the category of Charming the Plow.