The Wild Rose


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Eating the petals of the rose

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 What do you stand for? August 12, 2020 Slipping into the space between fiction and truth, a blog. This virtually real place has been my way of playing the cards dealt in a world that too often makes no sense. One after another, with sometimes, weeks or months in between, I have used a communal space to replace hand-written journals. Piecing together the specifics of my roving life, challenged by chronic illness, and chemical injury it is to fiction or the conjuring of medicine stories that make the battles life-affirming, fun, and full. While this medicine story is new, and yet to be eaten all the way through I stop here to learn how to use blogger's new software. I don't like it yet, but it works if I give it time.  If you are here to read, curious to learn what next happens in a safety pin kind of life there is something to make your life worth standing for.     "It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society" - Kristnamurti  The...
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Bright dimes and fresh-made bread

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  Kani and the silver-haired man giggled and shone like bright dimes still made from real silver. It was unlikely, and I loved it. My oldest friend was here for a visit, two weeks, ten days really and the silver-haired man was as shy as a fox. Fortunately, Kani Milrose was a woman who loved the company of foxes and was very familiar with trickery. I watched them. "Ham and cheese! Yum. You make that bread Lilly?" I nodded, dug my elbows into the quilt and slid toward the cooler of gin and tonic. "Help me with this." My upper body is powerful strong from the years of re-directing my muscles to my shoulders and arms but sometimes I just liked knowing someone could be my muscle.The cubes of ice were still holding their cold, but the lid to the old glass shaker was tight. Kani took the glass shaker, caught my eye and said softly, "This was your ma's." The gold stripping was mostly a memory, but yes the glass was the last of my mother's kitchenware. We...
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Only so much truth

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The afternoon breeze was late. Scanning the opaque sky for a promise of clouds from either mountain range there was neither wind nor chalk mark. Without saying, Percy disappeared between the fully visible notion of Rabbit and the in between place of ghosts and the universe's undulating hips of myth.  . . . . . "Somewhere before or after we make that promise to manifest solid, there is the waiting room, and so many corridors," Percy had many stories about where he went at these times and how all of us on Haumea find our place here. His favorite explanation always connected to trees. "It's really more like tapping into the roots than disappearing. All those tales you humans love to tell about our rabbits holes are only" -- he twitched his prominent nose -- searching for the words, "only so much truth. "To be a familial (as in familiar ) to you we have to be very good at patch-working. The Trees are excellent at patching and messaging need. Support an...
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