Flame of Flamazia

January 16, 2009

 

This happened the other day but I’ve been too exhausted to write about it until now.

 

I finally get someone to take me ashore since Nannie doesn’t want to go.  A VERY nice young man who works on the ship said he would be happy to take me IF we would take the wheel chair along (just in case).  Not sure if I said ok because he was such a friendly man and a real gentleman, because I really needed help to go since Nannie and Elsie weren’t going, or because he was so handsome in a classic sort of way (from Rome, Italy), or I really wanted to go regardless of the obstacles.  I put on my hat, packed a few things in my satchel: sunglasses and sunscreen, a few protein-granola bars (just in case), and the walnut from the Enchanteur, of course.  Plus a few items not yet to be mentioned.

 

We chatted, as I allowed myself to be pushed in the wheel chair from the ship onto the Island and through the city streets.  Cataldo remarked that I looked like a celebrity being escorted rather than being pushed, in my wheel chair, with my exotic straw hat with feathers and fancy sunglasses with red and green polka dots on a white frame.  Pleased with the gracious acknowledgement, I just nodded each time he said this.  (He was probably looking for a good-sized tip.)  He had assumed I wanted to shop, but I kept waving him on, (practicing my royal wave), past many interesting stores I might like to return to visit, if there is time.  But at my age you prioritize your energy and time.  And I know what I wanted to do.   I wanted to dance.

 

A few years ago, after I had an outburst of anger regarding the plumber (charged too much and was too incompetent), Nannie talked me into doing a collage session about my third chakra, the fire chakra.  I had been drinking some herb tea at the time and, lo and behold, there was a dragon on the Celestial Seasonings tea box.  Perfect!  Then I found 2 similarly shaped pictures, one online and another from a magazine.  Last, a catalogue had a great picture of a compass rose.  I moved all the pictures around until I found what I liked, then glued them down.  Talking to other people, I called it my third chakra dragon; I thought of it as the Flame of Flamazia.

 

 

 

After first thinking it was silly to imagine what a combination of pictures would “say” to me, as Nannie suggested (she wanted me to answer a specific set of questions suggested by someone or other from some book (I can’t remember), I secretly tried it my way a few weeks later and came up with this:

 

          I am the dragon residing at your third chakra, your fire chakra.  I give you outer-directed energy to move and dance, as well as inner-directed energy to burn up fear and anger, and to transform the fire energy into creativity.  Combined inner and outer energies become manifested creativity.  You can chart a course as to how my energy is directed and used.  BEWARE: I can burn others as well as yourself if my energies are not properly handled or used in anger.

         

Flamazia developed from that card, as I learned to release anger energy and transform it into manifesting the healing energy of dance.  Now she is a cherished aspect of who I am.

 

          I think of this as Cataldo and I chat and pass shop after shop. 

 

          “Here, madam? Here is a good shop.”  I am obviously thwarting his job with the waves from my hand.  “Keep going.  Keep going.”

 

          I finally see the sign, a small sign, but extremely colorful, mentioning the Fertility Dances.  I tell Cataldo to stop, that I want to visit this store (it happens to be the one with the sign but I don’t tell him that).  Looks like one of those New Age stores Nannie so loves, but I try to avoid although I enjoy some of the products they carry (like my Crone Stones).  But I don’t like coming out of those places with my hair reeking of incense.

 

          Cataldo assists me to stand, as if he is a Prince and I am a Princess.  I glide into the store (or so I think I do, delighted as I am with being treated elegantly).  Sure enough, filled with incense.  I ask the woman behind the counter about where the Fertility Dances were being held.

 

          “Why…um… did I hear you right?  Fertility Dances?  You want to know the whereabouts of the Fertility Dances?”  Ms. Many-Nose–and-Ear Piercings with Multi-Colored Hair stuttered as she looked me up and down.   I guess my destination was incongruent with my appearance.  She didn’t see the Princess.  Probably more like a dowager Auntie way beyond menopause, heavy set body, some wrinkles, a little out of breath from just walking to the counter, and to top it all, she probably saw me get out of the wheel chair.

 

          I jutted out my chin and glared at her, saying in my best haughty voice, “My reasons are my own.  Where?”

 

          Stepping back a bit, she nodded to a door behind her.  “Through there.  We take no responsibility if there are any problems.  None!  Whatsoever! No matter what!”

 

          “Fair enough.”  I opened the door to see a narrow, winding path on a slight incline wending through a colorful array of flowers.  I walk slowly, I look at the beauty, I imbibe strength as well as sweet fragrances.  Taking off my shoes because this is holy ground, I feel more like the real me again.  The climb is easy, but I am drawn to go off the path when I come upon a red fox (a very red fox) sitting on the path.  She waits and watches me, then moves off the pathway.  I decide to follow.  Soon I’m at the top of a hill where a glade is covered in (what I call) fairy grass.  Very fine, light green, about 4 inches tall, so fine that the slightest of breezes has it all swaying, dancing.  The fox, who had moved to the center of the glade, appears to grow larger, start to swirl, then poof! disappeared.

 

          I drop my satchel and my shoes, take off my hat and sunglasses as I listen expectantly.  The wind increases.  The branches of the encircling nearby trees dance, make music as they chime together, each pair sounding a different note.  And from somewhere, a tinkling of bells as I move to the center of the glade, wondering if I, too, will disappear from this very spot like the red fox.  My bare feet feel the earth’s vibrating energy, all slowly moving up my legs which now feel stronger and need to sway.  The energy courses up to my hips and belly, which have suddenly lost weight and now gyrate, as if belly dancing.  The energy reaches my heart, and I can feel the blood pumping stronger than ever, bringing oxygen and nutrients to every cell in my whole body.  My arms move in the unabashed joy of being as they lift to the skies in gratitude.  The healing powers of dance overcome me, as I danced.  And danced and danced.  Joy, ecstasy, thanks.  Flamazia’s flame afire as I release all the built up energy, transformed from anger and frustration to creativity manifesting in dance, as I honor and acknowledge the power of the third chakra, as I recognize the roots of anger in fear and sadness.  I dance… throwing off energy, heat and light… I am the fireworks!

 

          I wake up collapsed on the ground, not know how much time has passed.  The sun is now close to setting.  I am naked and my hair has obviously been flying all over and is now all tangled.  What happened to my clothes and hairpins?  Yet I feel so peaceful and contented at this moment, even though I know tiredness and exhaustion will settle in as my body returns to its “usual” state – for now.

 

          From the distance, I hear calls of “Osbeth!”  “Osbeth!”  They are searching for me.  I can’t allow them to find me this way. (Nannie will never let me out of her sight again.)  No matter what, this time was worth it.  A. Sachs said: “Death is more universal than life; everyone dies but not everyone lives.”  And I have lived, regardless of how people see me now.

 

          My satchel lies close at hand so I grab it and fumble around for that walnut Enchanteur gave me.  Yes, just what I need to beam back to the ship, hopefully, straight to my cabin so no one sees me like this.   The Flame of Flamazia’s fling is over!   (for now) 

 

 

Carmentia Festival – Feeding the Muse

Sibyl Riversleigh has arrived at the Grove of Carmentia in time for the annual, 14th of January Festival in honor of Carmeta. Here she is leading the festival and may be  seen doing a ritualistic, fertility dance to honor the Camenae who were originally goddesses of springs, wells and fountains, or water nymphs of Venus . They were wise deities similar to the muses and sometimes gave prophecies of the future. Carmenta bears much in common with Themis, the Greek Goddess of divine law and wisdom and Sibyl, like Enchanteur knows to pay respect to she who keeps watch over the fires of inspiration.
Heather Blakey

In ‘The Greek Experience’ by C.W. Bowra, Bowra writes that “In primitive societies the poet was regarded as an instrument of an external power which possesses him and speaks through his voice. He is the prophet, a seer, a man who speaks with tongues, an agent of the unseen incalculable forces. Art hardly depends on him; for he depends on inspiration. He may see what others do not see; he may master the arcane knowledge, which he utters in dark and difficult words. But neither his knowledge nor his words are regarded really as his own… The poets paid tribute to inspiration when they spoke of the Muse, the divine power which directed their work. Homer begins each of his epics with a summons to hear the Muse singing on Mount Helicon, and they gave him a poet’s staff and told him to sing. The Muse then is the divine power whom the poet invokes to his aid, and the assumption is that without her he is more or less powerless. She is outside his control, and she can do for him what he cannot do for himself.”

Writing may or may not be divinely inspired but men have been encouraged to write down their thoughts and feelings for a long time. Poetry was a part of common life, honored and enjoyed by a large number of people. It was needed for hymns and supplications to the gods but it was also a repository of stories for people who were deeply interested in the achievements of their ancestors. It was and still is needed to celebrated glory, victory, for people to unburden themselves of loves and hates. Writing provides a kind of natural decompression chamber to unleash a whole range of feelings.

If the Muse is a conduit it makes sense that we should feed and look after the ether like creature, this creative creature who wafts about in white robes. Pamper her I say.

One way to feed the Muse is to respect her and recognize her divine power by setting up a plate with some candles and stones on the desk where you write. Then you can light the candles and invite the Muses to be with you. Your invitation can be as simple as ‘Calliope, please hear my call and be with me today.’

You can go a step further and participate in a guided imagery where you wander up the sacred way at Delphi and sit in the Temple of Apollo, waiting for her to see you, to give you the poet’s staff that Hesiod speaks of.

Make sure that you take a gift with you. The Greeks traditionally gave honey and milk and seed cakes but given the wealth in the treasure house at Delphi they came bearing more valuable gifts as well. Herodotus describes how Croesus ’caused a statue of a lion to be made in refined gold, the weight of which was ten talents.’ Croesus sent ‘two bowls of an enormous size, one of gold, the other of silver, which used to stand, the latter upon the right, the former on the left, as one entered the temple.’

One of my year twelve students describes a fog clearing to reveal Calliope ’seated in a brilliantly polished seat of gold. She is covered in jewels that I could only ever imagine owning. Brooke knew not to go there without a gift if she hoped to be shown ‘what she knew inside’ Be prepared to make real sacrifices and actually give away something of great meaning to you.

There are lots of other things that you can do to feed the muse. A basic chore is to write every day. If you were a marathon runner training to win a marathon you would not consider starting without an enormous amount of preparation, unless you wanted to kill yourself or make a complete fool of yourself. So how can you expect any self respecting Muse to help you and give you the poet’s staff if you are not prepared to write the miles. Anyone who offers a quick and easy path to coming to know yourself and help you find your authentic voice is a trickster. You cannot become a good writer without the practice and the training. You have to make writing a daily practice. To write and feed the Muse:

Prepare a special psychic place where the creative force knows it can find you and regularly inhabit that place.

Be careful not to allow over responsibility to steal your time. Put your foot down and say no to things that you know you do not have to do.

Art is not meant to be created in stolen time so set aside time for your art each day.

Read some poetry every day. Take a line and just write without thinking. This is called stream of consciousness writing.

Alter your perspective by taking a piece of broccoli from the refrigerator. Talk to it about the meaning of life.

Go for long walks in tree filled parks and just gaze up through the leaves, or walk watching what is happening at ground level.

Observe life and write about it.

Have races with yourself to see how many words you can get on to the page. Take a visual symbol from a magazine and then write for ten minutes without stopping.

Do Julia Cameron’s ‘Morning Pages’

Get a packet of Tarot cards, shuffle and lay out some cards. Meditate upon them and begin to write without thinking.

Be a bit eccentric and dress to please yourself. Wear flamboyant, ecclectic accessories.

Drape a fur coat, from a recycled clothes shop, around yourself and write sensuously and erotically

Give up ideas of glory. The Muse will rush away in terror if she suspects that you are only in it for instant fame, money or name.

from ‘The House of The Muse’ by Heather Blakey

Audience comments from another time and place when Sibyl danced.

Island Dancer

I used to draw a lot before I got caught up with doing digital constructions. Here’s a drawing done in Prisma Color pencil then placed on a computer generated background.

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

No Furtive Fertility

Though m’lady Emrys and I (faucon) met too late in life
to conceive a child of warmth and glee;
I did once say to her –

“every woman should hear at least once in her life –
lady, will you bear my child!”

and, as fertility rests in the soul as well,
and we have together produced
a ‘Child of Light’ …
and its care
shall consume our passion
evermore and now.

my words you already know –
and those written of a Priestess
on the Calabar “Early to the Temple”
are excerpts from poems sent to her …

Know her words also:

I will look into the dawning
To watch the faeries harvest dew,
touch the sidhe’s hearts a’spawning
sprites and pixies with wings of blue.
I will look upon the daybreak
just before the sun does rise
And gaze upon the misty Lake
to wait for a falcon to arrive
I will wander in the crystal morn
harping soundwaves on the wind
and revel in love newly born
and yet has ever been

A Different Dance

In more ancient times fertility rites took many forms
such as Beltane and simpler survival needs –
certainly not following the rules of today.

Here is a story where my Gusari character Kiyan
is caught in a dance of a different sort.

faucon
…………………………………………………………………….

Maiden

The goats were a mistake, but Kiyan knew he must take some of the blame. When the word went out that he would perform magic and stories for the children of the village, those out in the high pastures herding goats decided to take a short cut. Unfortunately, the forest path went through his specially prepared camp. Now the pot of stew was filled with dirt and his khana pavilion was broken and torn. Even his mild disposition produced a sigh as he set about repairing his preparations. His many secret visitors would be disturbed if the camp was not perfect.

Thus he was somewhat distracted and his normal shaman sensitivity gave no advanced warning of the visitor’s approach. A slight shadow across the ferns and a small broken twig gave late warning. The Gusari tumbled aside and came up with drawn kama sword — trained reaction from past events. He found himself staring into the doe-like eyes of a young girl, though her exposed turn of calf and hint of budding breast beneath her shift caused him to upgrade his first appraisal. She stood quietly in the half shadow of a spruce and waited for his call. A slight breeze seemed to play with her hair, but it may have been a trick of the sunlight flickering through the waving branches. She looked at him without fear, while her steady eyes and slight smile told of a secret. Kiyan went into the center of the glade to sit on a rock and gave her a nod. She came with some hesitation.

“I come as a messenger of things I do not fully understand. My older sister has sent me.”

The Gusari had nothing to say, but gave her time to gather her thoughts.

“She has been married for two years now. My uncle was injured in a battle last year and this somehow affects their ability to have a child. She is living with great distress and yearning.” The girl looked down and played with the grass with her bare toes. “She will come to you tonight, after dark so that you can not see her or know her name. She is not comely and somewhat bashful, but said to tell you she is strong and passionate — that you will be pleased.”

Again, the Gusari had nothing to say, but nodded, partially soas not to embarrass her almost tearful eyes. She turned and walked slowly toward the path by the stream. The she stopped and laughed.

“If you are here in two years at the Spring Sharing, I will come too.”

Then the maiden skipped into the shadows and was gone.

Enchanteur’s Dance

 

Enchanteur’s Fertility Dance at the Folly.
by Heather Blakey

Dionysian Ecstasy
choreographed by Heather Blakey