Myths, Legends, Stories

Down in the southern province of Suhag in Egypt where King Scorpion lived 5,300 years ago I worked with archeologists discovering clay tablets.

Humans recorded taxes on oil and linen - a material Egyptians considered ritually pure under the protection of the goddess Tayt. The hieroglyphic line drawings of animals, plants and mountains revealed stories of economies and commodities.

In Nevali Cori we found 9,000 year-old shards of ceramics pottery depicting dancers.

“These images,” said a metaphorical digger, “reveal a common ancestor creating to integrate their community.”

A camelhair brush cleaned shards. “Anything else?”

“Well,” one said sifting dust, “we surmise these images established a collective discipline in their community. See how the figures are holding hands? What do you see now?”

“I see a circle of movement. A connected unity, a language in space.”

“It’s more than that. There are five rhythms in dance. You start with a circle. It’s a circular movement from the feminine container. She is earth.”

“Earth?”

“Yes, then you have a line from the hips moving out. This is the masculine action with direction. He is fire.”

“Fire is the driver.”

“Chaos is next, a combination of circle and lines where the male and female energies interact. This is the place of transformation.”

“I see. And then?”

“After chaos is the lyrical, a leap, a release. This is air. The last element of dance is stillness. Out of stillness is born the next movement.”

Language dances in space.

Every fourteen days a living language dies on Earth. The last speaker says good-bye.

6,100 and counting.

Storytellers sing oral traditions. They memorize stories, songs, poems, seasons, celebrations, rites, magic and ceremonies. They create and exchange family, clan, tribal myths and legends. Their children listen, memorize, chant and recite ancestor songs.

An historian’s job is trying to understand what happened through time.

An anthropologist’s job is to understand how people told their creation stories.

Mircea Eliade, a historian of religions, said, “Myths tell only of that which really happened.”

Myths suggest that behind the explanation there is a reality that cannot be seen and examined.

A myth is a story of unknown origins.

Myths are sacred stories of religion based on belief, containing archetypical universal truths.

They are in every place and no particular place. The world is sacred.

Myths, legends, stories.

Magic words grow here.

Intensity propels ten claws across twenty-six keys. Reed-like digits reflect use and neglect.

Psychology handles the branches. Mindfulness swims with roots.

Evolution flashes flickering beams of incandescent auras and pulsating electro-magnetic fields evolving character, attitude, values, behaviors and intention.

Intention is karma.

Perpetual transformation.

Weaving A Life (Volume 4) - Kindle Edition

 

Burma

Diamond Sutra

“So you should view this fleeting world –

A star at dawn, a bubble in a stream,

A flash of lightning in a summer cloud,

A flickering lamp, a phantom, and a dream.”

– Diamond Sutra

Nepal

Courage

On his final day in Ankara he shared a Chinese calligraphy poem with adult students.

It was a Qing dynasty gift from primary students in a rural Sichuan school. This visual simplicity symbolized impermanence.

Bright beautiful elementary children in a radiant universe wearing Young Chinese Communist Pioneer red scarves around well-scrubbed necks sitting upright at colorful plastic desks raised hands when he asked questions yelling, “Let me try, let me try!”

Young brave students had the courage to say this.

Older students at a Chinese middle school, Chinese university and at TLC were aged, silenced and dumbed down through tyranny, fear and oppressive parental and educational brainwashed ideological structural systems.

Shame married Guilt, producing twins. The more the merrier.

Adults had lost their instinctual curiosity, humor and enthusiasm. Only primary kids had the courage to say, “Let me try, let me try.”

Their beautiful pictographic black ink calligraphy read, “One day a man climbed into the mountains and reached a hut. He met some children.”

“Where is the teacher?” he said.

“They pointed up the mountain covered by clouds. ‘He is not here, he’s gone into the mountains to look for herbs.’”

He folded the poem creasing Chinese ideograms where latitudes and longitudes met horizons.

His linguistic healing efforts departed Ankara with Bamboo.

The Language Company

China

Every August

“Tell us a story,” said kids.

"I’ll do my best,” said a Zen monk. "I heard this story from a friend in The Windy City and it’s stranger than creative nonfiction. Somebody said August is the cruelest month. The hottest. A local 15-year old girl killed herself yesterday with a single shot to the head. Makes you wonder who, when, where, how and big WHY.

“Last August it was M in Chicago. The perfusionist. She called a wrong number out of desperation and I inherited the inevitable task of talking her through the drama of her life. I answered the phone in Tacoma and kept her on the suicide hot line. It produced basic peace of mind for her. I created poems and an intense piece entitled The Last Several Pages about a book she was reading. She said was going to join a procrastinators club but kept putting it off. She settled down with an older divorced real estate salesman.”

"Walking through fire," said Omar the blind author of A Century is Nothing.

"It was a tough one. All about listening, recognizing faces of fear, seeing truth. Letting go. Moving on. Finding balance.

"Another August rolled around. Out of curiosity I called one of those 900 relationship toll-free numbers and left a message: Independent orphan seeks open-minded spirituality adept woman for casual relationship and friendship.

"Did you get any response?" said Omar.

"Three. The Relationship Express passed stations named Loneliness, Emptiness, Friendship, mid-life Crisis, Ticking Time Bombs, Rhapsody of the Disenchanted, Still Looking After All These Years, and Where’s The One? It zoomed past scenic views of Depression, Melancholy, Trust, Hope, Anxiety, Doubt, and Fear.

"I transited into the listening role with two women from Montana facing self-discovery, broken relationships and renewal. We’re riding the range, mending fences, and setting up new parameters. Now I love women, yes sirree, well all right then - this curious nature of heart-mind making new connections.

"I’m not saving anybody. All life stations have levels of becoming. Passengers on personal growth levels face illusions grasping their Gestalt, shattering mirrors and delusions. They work out in private emotional, physical, spiritual fitness centers. Levels replace levels. Each level has a center. The vortex is the equilibrium, the source."

"We are works in progress,” Omar said.

"I’m just doing my work.”

“That’s a powerful statement,” said Omar.

"Yes it is. Now I wouldn’t be the first person to say it’s healing work but I’ve learned to listen. Not all the clowns are in the circus. I make it perfectly clear to these kind ladies that I am not in the rescuing business anymore. Nope. No way.

"Honesty is the best policy. The emotional bottom line is they’re looking for a kind, sensitive man who won’t screw around and fuck up their lives. They’ve been cheated on, dumped on and left taking care of the kids. They need someone who will just listen to them without saying, ‘I can fix it.’ They know what’s what. They know how the world works, how the heart beats. They have their own toolbox. You’ve gotta have a good tool box."

"Tools. Couldn’t agree with you more, " said Omar.

"We’re all passengers on life’s train," said a Zen monk.

It’s the Circus Train!

A fall loon circles above schools of minnows. I stand in Puget Sound shallows as the Florida circus train rolls north. I yell and wave amid swirling dervishes. Rapid tides breathe in and out.

“It’s the circus people.”

“Step right up under the big Irish bog top.”

People wave from their moving life station. Tired eyed circus veterans stand next to clowns filming water lapping land. They reload memories into instamatics. Midgets peer over the edge of an abyss next to sturdy muscular mustached roustabouts.

Everything they need in their magic portable city is on rolling stock - water trucks, tents, buses and animal cages. A bright red ‘For Sale,’ sign shimmers in a train window. A rolling window displays a plant garden spilling into water vapor. Another has a toy elephant.

They live their dream life on rails. Caged people living with watered and fed animals. Routines: set it up, do the show with all the temerity of tenacious trainers, take it down, pack it up, load it up rolling miles this gleaming circus waving hello goodbye. Ocean waves a silver fish as one sparkles skyward.

When they reach the Canadian border they reverse engines to roll east through Big Sky country toward winterized Florida.

Rare dawn light passes sleepy stations bathed in dew diamonds.

Riding the rails follows spirit journey.

“The simple way is to listen, be detached, share and establish levels of responsibility, limitations and boundaries remaining open to the big picture,” said a monk.

A shadow carrying a candle passed them in the dark.

"Not too much wisdom and not too much compassion, whispered a wandering monk climbing a Cold Mountain toward a bamboo cabin sanctuary.

"Who are you?" said a child.

"I am a wandering monk."

"Where are you going?"

"To gather medicinal herbs for tea."

"Would you care to join us later?"

"Yes. We all have (a) ways to go."

"That’s a powerful story. Your friend is onto something there. She touches people confronting their fears with formless form and emptiness. It’s not fiction. Or is it? Is it a lie layered with your imagination to make it true?” said a kid.

"Good question. Omar speaks and writes from the heart-mind. Some people don’t want to hear this stuff, but say hey kid, they can take it or leave it. I accept her word. It’s about the human condition."

"Well said. Life is something to be lived and not talked about. What say, shall we rest here awhile, enjoy some food, companionship and a siesta?"

Everyone gathered in a sacred circle. It was all light in their interior shamanistic landscape.

Weaving A Life (Volume 2)