You are currently browsing the daily archive for January 3, 2007.

One story oft begets another at a fire circle,
or tavern of candle glows and shadow forms …

and the “dark-hued” hints of Mrs Beenettle
calls out for balance and counterpoint melody,
that this audience may find a new synthesis
of knowing.

There is another small cottage that I recall —
that few chose to visit …

faucon
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NO NAME

My steps always slow a bit when I wander past — you know, that house on Earl Lane. It is medium far from my new digs, of course; but I always find parking by the playground and time to amble by — just in case she is about — or in — never quite sure of the phrase. One might think me a hapless swain or tabloid reporter with my frequency — but others come too. We just smile, and nod — never exchanging a word — no need. Either you understand or you don’t. If you know her name you come. Simple.

I first heard it when I crossed the street to admire her bed of flowers — laughing friends of sunlight when other yards were drab and brown — forlorn. I laughed and whistled to a caterpillar pulsing there — strange — it was autumn! No matter — the flowers waved back at me in rhythm and sang her name — “Anashee” — I thought I saw her shadow at the window. Another time I saw her at the market — the outdoor one. Made sense! I knew it was she — her slender staff tapping a dance on the stones — silver plaited hair entwined with scarlet yarn. The teaming, surging crowd jostled each other and stalls shook from clutching, clamoring hands — but she stood alone — no one near. It was as if she was not really there — yet as if no one else was — a space and dream apart. I drew close and I knew she smiled though I never saw her face — never have. But she spoke to me — well sort of. My heart sang a whispered, “Anashee.” You only have to hear it once — and you remember. Silly thing to say!

Others say they have seen her by the river — always on the other side — but no one can say exactly when — or time of day — just when they were caught up in some moment of joy or youthful play — look up — away — know that she is there. I haven’t though — perhaps I lack a sense of awe or wonder — perchance I don’t need to see her. After all — I know her name! I could find her if I chose of course — just clear my mind of jumbled thoughts and imagined needs — and let my soul guide my feet. It is enough for now to revel in the trail of whispers she leaves behind — prancing grass and chattering leaves — and raindrops pooling in mirrors of light — and seeds contenting themselves with tomorrow — and strangers touching hands — and trees asking to be hugged. Where she passes time ripples a bit and I look back at where I will someday be — a child again — I hope.

There are rumors that she is a witch — couldn’t be — but people need a word — never said with rancor or fear — just something that pops into their head — those who don’t hear her name. Don’t know why people need a label — why not just accept? Someone said she was from another place — didn’t specify — just a statement of fact. Where she is — is now — must be, I guess. We are from another place — not hers.

Oh, I understand! “Anashee” is not her name! It is a vibration of the current I feel when standing here — this empty lot covered in thorns — no address on the curb — only a twisting path through untended grass. She walked her once — I know — it was enough. For when a wizard passes flowers grow, the say. And now I will trace that path forever — and the cottage will return — and the fountain gurgle over ageless stones — and the windows cast back a reflection of another time — never lost. Come sit here a spell with me. Sing of Anashee. Sit.

But sing.

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A photo taken by Fran

Enjoy 2007

Sunset on the Indian Ocian

by anita marie moscoso

Inspired by

The  Lumuria Sanctuary Project

The Solitary Reaper

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Outside the town of Dewhurst is a little Country Cottage House sitting all by itself up off of a long dusty road. There’s  a rusty mailbox out front leaning over a ditch and a low stone fence that runs for miles around the the Cottage’s property.

The stone wall also surrounds a small white cottage with potted plants on the porch and at each lace covered window there are window boxes full of purple and white and yellow Pansies.That’s where Mrs. Beenettle lives.

People who drive by Mrs. Beenettle’ s House always comment on the old fashioned looking elderly lady with the straw hat and the basket of flowers on her arm.

” I wonder how old Mrs. Beenettle is, ” they’ll say ” she’s been out working on that garden of hers since I was a kid and that was over 20 years ago. ”

Then they forget all about her until the next time they drive by.

You see, Dewhurst is an up and coming town with streets full of houses called ” Mini-Mansions ” and streets with names like ” Glen  Road ” this and ” View Ridge” that and the people who live in those developments aren’t the sort of people who slow down their cars or themselves for anything.

That includes sweet old ladies who tend Old English Cottage Gardens in the suburbs of Seattle.

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Last spring, after years and years of waving to people somebody actually took the time to stop and drive up to Mrs. Beenettle’ s Cottage.

That somebody was named Betsy Ware.

Betsy Ware swears too much and drives to fast and when her kids moved out and left Betsy and her husband with an empty nest Betsy filled their old bedrooms with boxes full of their books and old furniture and outdated clothes and broken toys.

” If they want to move back in they’re going to have to haul all this crap away. ”

A fool is a woman who doesn’t know her own children and Betsy knew her kids would rather live in a dumpster then to be responsible for their own messes so they never did come back-not even for visits.

Betsy was either one step ahead of you or maybe a half a step behind. But she was never far off the mark. That’s what made Betsy such a hard person to mess with.

It was a gift she guessed.

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One day Betsy just got it into her head to make the drive up to Mrs. Beenettle’s. She wasn’t sure where the idea came from; it just seemed like the right thing to do on that nice cool Spring morning.

She got out of her jeep wearing a faded black t-shirt and her hair tied back in a braid and Mrs. Beenettle came from the side of her house with her basket full of flowers.

Mrs. Beenettle smiled her roadside smile. ” Well Good Morning!” she said bright as a daisy.

Betsy stood there and smiled back and the thought came from nowhere and locked Betsy’s smile into place…” I have no idea why I’m here…none at all.

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Mrs. Beenettle was pleasant enough, she knew all about plants.

What she said was not exactly what you would read in The Lady Gardener’s Companion Books.

 ” Flowers are just cool and cunning as any gambler or card shark” Mrs. Beenettle said in her soft warm voice. ” They will wine and dine and seduce anything they have to in order to get what they want.”

” What is it they want Mrs. Beenettle ” Betsy asked because Betsy had the feeling this was going to be a whopper.

” Why, they want to take over dear- simple it truly is as simple as that. I mean, if you think about it the only thing that consumes and reproduces with such blind determination are humans. We’re a lot alike, plants and humans.”

And Betsy found she couldn’t really disagree with that.

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They chatted about plants that ate bugs and flowers that smelled like cigarette smoke and Betsy asked, ” are there really such things as plants that eat people?”

Mrs. Beenettle laughed and so did Betsy and at that moment they both knew what the answer was-which only made them both laugh more.

The sun was starting to set and it was getting cooler when Mrs. Beenettle said, ” All kidding aside Betsy- if you’re interested in Man Eating plants this may tickle your funny bone-follow me.”

Behind Mrs. Beenettle’ s Cottage there was a grove of Hazel Nut trees. The trees had long thin spidery limbs and they were covered with moss and the bark on the trees was leather like and dark brown.

That surprised Betsy, she thought it would be more fitting if they were  bone white, but she was far to interested in what was growing beneath the little trees to wonder why the bark was the color it was.

Under each tree was a large flower.

The petals were black and purple and red and the flowers themselves were as large as the trees themselves.

And they smelled bad; they smelled very, very bad.

” Whoa ” Betsy said.

The sound of awe in Bety’s voice seemed to please Mrs. Beenettle a lot. In fact Mrs Beenettle smiled wider then ever and then  she put a Motherly arm around Betsy’s shoulders.

” I am curious about the smell Mrs. Beenettle.”

” These beauties are called Corpse Flowers Betsy. In order to thrive they attract blow-flies, and in order to attract Blow-Flies they have to give the flies what they desire which of course is the scent of death.”

” Is that all they attract Mrs. Beenettle?  The Blow- Flies?

Mrs. Beenettle held her arm out and Betsy took it. ” Plants always seem to find the perfect environment to survive  in- they’re very cunning in that respect.”

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Towards Sunset Betsy left Mrs. Beenettle’s Garden.

Tucked into the back of Bety’s Jeep was a flat box filled with tiny compartments. In each little square were tiny shoots that were coiled  and spiraled upwards and each little shoot was tinted black and red purple at their edges.

Next to the flat, wrapped in oiled paper were her shotguns and in a little plastic envelope under the guns were tags from sweaters and jackets and shirts.

Like Mrs. Beenettle said, plants always seem to find the best enviorment to survive in- they’re very cunning in that respect.

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