Myth For My Tale Bone

Angeles Arrien writes, "At the Black and White Gate, we review and reassess our conduct in the art and craft of relationships. This gate requires that we face the history of all our relationships: with ourselves, friends, colleagues, and family members, as well as organizations, teams, and communities. Here we are reminded of our purpose as human beings --a miraculous species born to learn about love and to create. Any relationship can function as a conduit for both manifesting creativity and mirroring to us the extent of our ability to express love...We begin to release our reliance on fear or pride to protect us. We recognize in our later years that the only way to come home to our spiritual nature is to express our love nature." We are at that point in a wanderer's path where we know the time for moving is upon us. When that itch to move was fed mostly by the itch, a restlessness, with less history with needing to (we outstayed our welcome, couldn't toler

Big plop, plop, ploppy drops of rain fall onto the vardo's roof. Not quite the sort of weather you'd expect for a mid-July, but then ... expectations have a way of becoming a way too tiny kind of box. This from a woman who lives in a wagon no bigger than some people's walk-in closet. Pete's just come through the door after washing the dishes using the big stock pot filled with 'Jude Water' (we haul water from friends' wells ... friends who don't have chlorine in their water; chlorine makes me very sick). The buckets of water, now empty, were from our friend Jude. Our outside living space under the awning works best inside the drip line. Today is one of those days when a tall lean frame like Pete's fits just right.   Perspective Up the stairs, Onto the porch, Through the door. It's cozy inside, and the rain stays outside. Then it's not miserable The mosquito comes in with Pete, I clap my palms together with vig

 " The best of the stories we can give our children, whether they are stories that have been kept alive through the centuries by that mouth-to-mouth resuscitation we call oral transmission, or the tales that were made up only yesterday -- the best of these stories touch that larger dream, that greater vision, that infinite unknowing. They are the most potent kind of magic, these tales, for they catch a glimpse of the soul beneath the skin." - Jane Yolen from Touch Magic My friend Liz and I were having a Call-and-Response exchange of emails -- my favorite sort of mail, that comes close to the real stuff. Liz had read the post Some rivers run north .... and wrote: "Remember how I wanted to just observe and after observing talk about feng shui? I'll love to hear your observations about living behind a gate!" Copyright "Gates of Reflection" 2019, Yvonne Mokihana Calizar The story that follows is the myth to answer Liz's email. Myth is

Dad's Leftover Turkey Pot Pie Recipe The mix of people and faces are changing in Anacortes. Pete and I sat at a table next to the window. We would've been there hours before but instead I endured ninety minutes in a dentist's chair to learn I could pay $2K or $3K to repair two old teeth, one of those repairs 'questionably reliable' said the young and earnest holistic dentist. (The irony? it's my Wisdom Tooth with the iffy $500 repair, or a $1,600 crown option). The young waitress came to ask if we were ready to order lunch. Oh yes, I was hungry. "I'll have the turkey pot pie." I was ready for comfort food, flaky pie crust and warm, easy to eat savory filling. "We ran out of pot pie. Sold the last one about an hour ago." She honestly looked disappointed for me. But not as disappointed as me. "Where were you an hour ago?" Pete chimed. "In the dentist's chair!" I whined. "Damned dentist."