A Lemurian Tour

Christmas Preparations

Patricia — Thu, 16 Dec 2010 00:29:29 +0000

All sorts of comings and goings are taking place at Lemuria in preparation for Christmas!!!

And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
Luke 2:10 (King James Version)

Advent

Patricia — Sun, 28 Nov 2010 02:29:23 +0000

This Sunday begins the celebration of Advent.

I light one candle today in preparing for Christ’s birth and the season of Christmas. It symbolizes the knowing part of, A King Is Coming.

Christ has come, he is present in our world today, and he will come again in power.

The four candles are placed in a circular wreath which reminds us of God – no beginning and no end. A prayer is said as Advent is about prayer – unlike Lent which is about fasting and penitence.

The candles symbolize the light of God, through his son, Jesus Christ. The four outer candles represent the period of waiting.

1st candle – Hope (purple)

2nd candle – Love (purple)

3rd candle – Joy (purple or pink)

4th candle – Peace (purple)

A center white candle is optional and is white – the Christ candle. The prayer of Advent:

Come, O Come, Emmanuel,

And ransom captive Israel!

Winter Journal

Patricia — Wed, 17 Nov 2010 00:10:02 +0000

Winter Journal

White, quiet snow
Frozen fog at day break
A captured moment through
womanly eyes.
Fluttering chilly, yellow finches
happy with sad.
Undisturbed tree swing buried,
in the artic wind.
No child voice today.
Deer grouped together, steaming tails down, frosted steaming
backs hoofing it back carefully to a barren wooded shelter.
Ever so tranquil crunching.
Earth sadness covered in a fresh milk hue.
White, quiet snow.

*** written 2-11-04

The Wicked Garden–chapter 2

Patricia — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 04:41:11 +0000

Chapter Two – A Dream

The couch was the color of an autumn mustard plant, firm yet comfortable to
relax upon. The orange, red trim hit the back of my knees and felt slightly
stinging like that of a summer’s last mosquito bite. Running my hand across the
nap of the couch, turned the intense colors of fall from dark to light, even in
the well worn places.
I sipped the steamy coffee and enjoyed the strange yet familiar taste of real
cream. Being early isn’t always the best choice when one is waiting for another
with no manners or care about time. I started taking in the other aspects of the
room – the rich brown tapestry of the fern design hung precisely near a huge
gilded mirror – the glitter on the ornamental egg surrounding the embedded cameo
on the side table and the red flowers with bright yellow middles placed on the
polished pine boards of the floor.
The waiting seemed endless and I found myself nodding, slipping down and resting
the side of my head on the couch. I felt my body become heavy – I was barely
able to move. I was fighting sleep and yet quickly found myself in that place
somewhere between a dream and reality, like dusk, not yet dark with bits of
flickering daylight remaining.
In the dream state I viewed not only the room from the large doorway but myself
sleeping as well.
I watched with interest as the egg on the side table now sat upon the couch, the
gilded mirror no longer had it’s reflective glass and only contained within the
frame, the patina from the wall and a strange port size flower with a human head
for it’s tight bud moving ever so slightly.
I heard the rustle of a skirt and the soft sound of a healed boot. When my eyes
caught up with the sound – it was a woman with a lovely straw, wide brimmed hat.
She was sauntering across the room. At once I became frightened and heard the
beating of my heart in my ears – loud and throbbing.
The woman, perhaps in late twenties, held a pink glow through the black lace
dress. As she adjusted the heavy gathers along the shoulder line her seemingly
faceless shape caught mine. I could see the hollows where eyes belonged,
blinking. Her dark eyelashes sweep down. The outline of soft, pink lips
expressed a whisper saying , go. She repeated the word twice more.
The touch of a cold hand brought me back from my troubled sleep. Half
embarrassed and half frightened from what I believed was a dream I hastily tried
to straighten my appearance.
Ms. Abate observed me with a cool calculated smile.
‘Do you often fall asleep while waiting to be interviewed?’
I humbly apologized and explained I not sure what came over me – thinking it was
the unusually warm day so late in the season.
Her smile returned as before and I would see it many times more …
to be continued
*** written 12-22-06

The Wicked Garden–chapter 1

Patricia — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 04:22:42 +0000

Chapter One – Cotoneaster Franchetti

The smell of coffee permeates my noise. This early morning I haven’t the
patience to wait and throw another piece of wood into the stove hoping a higher
flame will rush the process.
Walking to the window in my kitchen I spy the postman, route wise, I am the
first. I throw on my sweater and go to get the mail. He waves me down and I am
ignored as I desperately need that cup of strong java and not an interruption.
The air is crisp and I smell leaves mingled with the rotting of apples. This is
a pleasant reminder autumn has arrived. My shoes stick slightly in the damp
earth.
The postal worker, Andrew Donovan, whom I’ve known for many years always remarks
with a chuckle at the positioning of my cottage, as the back faces the road. He
assumes this remark tickles me being the jolly old fellow he is. I always act
put out and say I enjoy my back to the world.
Today, a package has arrived wrapped in brown paper. The return address is from
a solicitor who I am not acquainted with. I quickly pile the narrow envelopes
atop the package, to deter the questions I know are about to be asked. To my
surprise his only remark being, lawyers are always causing trouble and receiving
a pay check to do so. He tips his hat and says, Have a good day.
I rub my hands together and commence the ritual of pouring cream first and then
finally adding the coffee. The bitterness stings my tongue, the warmness finds
my stomach, and a comfortable feeling settles in.
The desk, my work place is cluttered as I worked long into the night. I shuffle
papers and read bits of notes to acquire direction of a starting point. Memoirs,
if it is about one’s life it should be easy like a list, each year being a
number. But this is not so. It is more like the shifting of gears and one has to
hear the years to know when to go on to the next year.
I sort the mail, the small package I am still holding in my hands. Staring at it
the shape is that of a book.. I clip the string and a folded letter falls out.
I know this book – I have held it before – its cover is smaller than its pages.
The title – there is none. The contents are carefully drawn renditions of
poisonous plants. Holding the book close to my heart I feel tears begin to well
up – they fall in a steady stream down my cheeks. I reach for the letter.
Dear Miss Porter,
It is with regret and grave sadness I write this letter. Our dear friend Miss
Julia Lovelace … has passed away on August 13th. I was the one person
requested to attend the burial. She died as she lived, alone. As her solicitor
as well as her friend I was asked to pass on to you her journal. She also has
specified there is a trunk and with its contents to do as you wish.
I am available Thursday, October 3rd and will meet with you at her dwelling if
this is convenient time. Please leave word with my office. Again, I am deeply
saddened.
Colin Prichard, Esquire
My hand shakes as I fold the letter and place it on the desk. I open the book –
the watercolors are faded now, still beautiful, a bit crude. I smell the herbs
on some pages more than others. I feel her presence on the very first page.
… to be continued …
*** written 11-01-06

The Wicked Garden

Patricia — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 04:13:59 +0000

A dead murmur thrives in the garden of poison. Thick withering blooms blister
the clumped earth. Weeds rustle along the twisting path of cold stone. She works
wildly pinching ad pruning into the late hours of the blue night. Her hands
sparkle with frost. Her frozen breath lingers. A strange grey light surrounds
her …
to be continued …
*** written 10-06-06

Words & The Visual Journal

Patricia — Tue, 26 Jan 2010 01:12:00 +0000

Composting Words is another exercise at Visual Journal Lounge
at Soul Food Cafe.

Using cutout words and phrases from magazines, and books I chose those that
appealed to me and glued them without much thought down the blank page, both
front and back.

If you let your eye follow down the page of the words one can see poems, and stories just waiting
to be written. Cottage – could be a poem, Of Hats and Canes – may become a novel or, Moon Over
It is suggested in the article to add more words each day or start writing Morning Pages.

I have also included on the back cover of the journal a pocket containing
envelopes filled with images and words. Through this portion of the exercise
I am not only building a portable journal but also a place to work from.

Character

Patricia — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 01:25:00 +0000

Character

Of the remarkable woman
endeavored to sketch
the deepest impression.

The want of proportion
held her convictions
of widely divergent views.

Her tenderness brought
tears
that breathed in atmosphere of love.

Every woman is open
to all,
mercy was open
she was convinced.

A life sets us thinking
Strange,
that we are so timid
in trusting Divine vision
we need to venture
when each call comes.

A very beautiful illustration
only in absolute surrender
we can be,
As she was.

p.h. stewart – written May, 2006

*** the photo is of my grandmother and her sisters

A Room of Ones Own

Patricia — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 01:15:00 +0000

There is a room of soft warm colors – pale pinks and peaches where I go to write my thoughts.
It has a large window framed by lace curtains. It takes its place on the second floor of the tiny townhouse.
In it’s nestled walls there is an old heirloom clock that reaches to the ceiling – it gently ticks and tocks.
The presence of the clock is manly, stately.

The small daybed is against the window all dressed in salvaged linens of pristine white.
Many pillows, some of yellowed white make for much needed comfort. You can smell
the starch of an older, gentler time as one folds the crocheted throw which lays at the bottom.
The summer sun allows a breeze to flow as one sleeps – the coolness of winter near the window
allows a comfortable rest.

Picture postcards here and there blend with the color of the walls and there is one magnificent painting
of pink roses hung above the refurbished writing desk.
The mismatched chair is set at an angle – some of its meshed seat is torn.
A milk class jar holds various pens, a pencil, and opal handled letter opener.
A few small well worn covered red books are tucked in the corner of the desk – the tasseled book mark
spreads out as it hangs down and gently lays on the wood near the writing journal.
The journal is old – the cover feels hard to the touch. As one turns the journal it has spaces between the
sheets of paper filled with this and that. I lift the space and find a hankie folded neatly – the tatted edge
is lovely and tells another story.

In another corner is an overstuffed sofa chair in need of a new cover. The legs of the chair are short but with a
lovely carved design. A matching pillow sits back in a corner. When I sit in this chair I feel small.
A round frayed rug comes before the chair with its pattern of faded pink roses.

An old French dress form stares without its head from the other corner and above her are antique sleeping
clothes hanging on to a narrow shelf. The shelf holds dolls, some broken and a camera sits kiddy corner among them.

The round night stand holds the only lamp and light for the room – its cover drapes to the painted white floor
all ruffled . I turn the lamp on and once again I can smell freshly ironed cotton. Pink fresh carnations are
packed into a small vase. I smell them knowing it will be strong and unpleasant – but still somehow good. The table holds the head
of Mary with praying hands and a peach colored rosary. Next to her are two books, one turned over and opened.

I touch all these things in my room, some I spend more time with.
I finally sit at desk and open the journal and begin to write …

***

A writing exercise from Soul Food Cafe.

The Muse Box

Patricia — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 00:31:00 +0000

The Muse Box

~An Exercise from Soul Food Cafe~

Choosing the box was the simplest part of this artistic endeavor. I have had a paper mache box,
square in shape, for many years – I keep sewing notions in the box. My hands have touched the
items many times and I find I used it out of necessary for storing these items.

It became a place of all colors of thread – some plain and white, various shades of crayon colors,
a blue denim for patching my children’s jeans and variegated colors of autumn for quilt projects.
Various parts to the sewing machine lay in the corners – a pressure foot, a zipper foot, and a design
foot all shiny and silver. Leopard skin handle scissors – “ just used for fabric”, hide nicely along the side.
A tape measure wrapped with a knotted rubber band lays in another corner – perhaps stretched and
adding inches to one’s waist or hips.

The God or Muse Box has a new face – a sealer for cardboard to protect its foundation. The gold of
autumn paint, creamy in texture went on smoothly. I begin to think about embellishments.
Perhaps, a vintage image – I decide,” no ” as I add a second coat of paint. Roses in textured paint,
are applied on top of a stencil and randomly dry brushed over with metallic gold paint.
It is finally finished and I am very happy with the results. As it dries I envision it on my small desk
and wonder – do I place it on the right or left side?

My thoughts are in flight when I create. I remember the antique journal covers I have collected.
I carefully cut off the binding and begin to paint the covers. I use the same steps as for the box.
The journal is tied with sheer gold ribbon left over from Christmas.

I have given the project the reverence it needs to complete the original intention
– the giving over of my grievances to a higher power – I choose, God.
This will be new for me, this “giving over” concept. You can feel its power as I write on fresh linen paper.
I roll the paper tightly and tie with a small bow.
Now I walk away – I read somewhere – Asking the questions is just as important as having the answers.