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Camphor Laurel Woman
Laurel woman searches the deep caverns of the earth
-- nothing escapes her notice. She watches over the lichen that
forms on the trunks of trees, to see if it's frilling right. Chasing
after signs of disorder, she sends wisdom messages, order, order.
Watching over the birth of baby birds, and that owls make their
presence known in the deep dark night. Her fingers are black like
trees, combing the earth there, sorting, reminding, teaching. Sometimes
she hides in the mist, when she has seen enough. She watches over
the design of the spider web, the wild bee hive, the hornet's nest.
Other times she is the nightmare in the night, urging, waking, keeping
order over all living things. When she is done, she slips back into
the trunk of a Camphor Laurel tree... invisible. Tree Huggers I suppose I came by my love of trees naturally. My father was always planting, watering, grafting, and repairing them. He would gather seeds and nuts from the woods and plant them, and he was especially fond of the little walnut tree he planted. The poplars he planted in rows were forever and always blown over and broken by the wind. He'd tie them back together with strips torn from old sheets, and they'd miraculously heal. He'd check them nearly every day to see how much they'd grown, and the walnut tree grew up as I did, branching out here and there. Daddy studied books about the various methods of grafting, and he was forever experimenting with one technique or another. I don't remember how many of his grafts were successes or failures, and he probably didn't care; he just loved puttering, propagating, growing, increasing the size and numbers of his trees. We would walk in the woods with our faithful black dog, Bubby, and Daddy would tell me the names of trees, show me their leaves, tell me whether they loved sun or shade, whether they liked their feet wet or dry. He would tell me stories about the Indians who once lived on the land, and sometimes we'd find arrowheads or pottery shards. Bubby and I grew up together. I picked him out of the litter when I was only three, and he always went before me in the tall grass. He'd jump up like a dolphin to see where he was going, and I would follow his bobbing head through the weeds. Daddy liked to take us to cliffs, to Hundred Foot Bluff, and hidden streams and lakes that he'd found as a boy roaming the land. He read history, James Fennimore Cooper. The noble savages and their Great Spirit. Their burial grounds beneath our feet. On the shores of those secret lakes we'd find horsetail plants which I'd never seen before. I was fascinated by the hollow stems that pulled apart with a pop. Horsetail (Equisetum arvense), grew tall as trees in prehistoric times, and we used to talk about what had happened through history with these reeds still growing in the marsh. Some people called it a weed, he said, and it could be dangerous for livestock, but ancient peoples scoured their pans and pottery with it, and used it for medicine. Bubby died of old age when I left home for college. Daddy wrapped him in an old quilt and buried him under the walnut tree. They've both been gone for years now, but the walnut is a tall sturdy tree. I think I'll go visit it before snowfall. Tree hugger? You bet! Ellen Moore
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December 12 2005 Golden Seed Grove
Beneath the oak image and poem by Monika Roleff The tree can symbolize the feminine principle, the nourishing, sheltering, protecting, supporting aspect of the Great Mother. The roots of the tree go deep within the earth, seeking nourishment. Within Lemuria seeds are
sown and ideas flourish, as accomplished and struggling writer's
alike congregate. From the golden seed of the silver birch came
the elegant birch that so gracefully filters the morning sun as
it streams in the windows of Carnforth, the home of the Soul Food
Cafe. Similarly writing germinates from seeds sown in writing workshops,
from writing within the forums here at Soul Food. This grove is for people who understand that real writing can come from the humblest of origins, that to write you need to be able to tap into deep sources for nourishment. The grove is for those who know that it is enough to bear witness, who find that writing provides a healthful release for feelings and tensions. Here people take the time the time to remember their favourite tree. Heather Blakey The Photography of Monika Roleff Monika Roleff took her new digital camera and has provided a stunning artistic impression of the Lemurian Golden Seed Grove. Meet and take tea with the Silky Oak Spirit who lives in the Lemurian Grove. Activities 1. To get into the mood go and hug a tree, sit in your favourite grove and write and write and write about those gentle giants who have protected you. Stop and ask an old tree for some directions, to guide you as you travel down the writing path. Listen to the whispering words amid the rustling leaves. 2. Use some of the photography of Monika Roleff to kick start a piece of writing set within the sanctuary of the Golden Seed Grove. 2. Caravanserai travellers should take a moment to sit in the shade of the sycamore and reflect upon their month long journey along the famous Silk Road.
Wisha Wisha - Another Piper's Call Come January, when all is quiet and the holiday spirit has everyone in Australia in its grip, a small group will jump the ditch, enter the Enchanted Woods of Enid Blyton fame and head towards the Magic Faraway Tree. This group will climb the tree, meet old and new characters on every branch and climb the ladder, up into intriguing lands that arrive each month during 2006. The group is limited to twenty five of the most committed participants and the adventures will culminate with the production of the 2006 Advent Calendar. Email heather blakey at iprimus dot com dot au with the subject line Can I Come and Climb The Faraway Tree? Preference will be given to passport carrying members of the Silk Road. Non passport carrying members need only write a short email explaining the compulsion to respond to the call in order to acquire a free passport. First in first served and all that.
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