I loved the images Michelle sent me last time.  They included the suitcase, camel and art deco woman as well as the serrated map border.  The drummer was an image I sent her, which came back to me.  I suppose she picked the suitcase because I’ve been traveling this summer to Ireland. And thought there doesn’t seem to be anything Irish in the picture it does speak directly to many things about the journey.

It’s been a while since I’ve traveled anywhere unfamiliar or outside of the boundaries of the US.  I’d been getting restless and plagued with wanderlust so the opportunity to go to Ireland came at just the right time.  I went with a group of ten amazing women- strangers to me, but not unknown. They are all represented in the central figure of the young woman. There is a lovely camaraderie that occurs between women of a certain age who have worked hard all their lives seeking to know themselves.  We envision life as a journey of possibilities and value  it holistically, good,bad, ugly, sublime and ordinary all accepted as part of the whole. As within, so without. Once one accepts the inner journey than the outer journeys become full of metaphors and vice versa.  When the inner and outer journey merge and the lines between them become fluid magic occurs. It’s that feeling I wanted to convey here for indeed, my Irish trip was in all senses a magical journey.


Paps of Danu

Specifically Irish, are the two matching hills in the scene behind the drummer’s head.  They look like two breast-shaped mountains located near Killarney in County Kerry.  These are the Paps of Anu long considered sacred first to the mother goddess Anu or Danu as she was known on the continent. Our trip was actually a pilgrimage to ancient sacred sites.  In the collage, you see this reflected in these hills and also in the  post card in the lower right hand corner depicting the ruins at Chaco Canyon in the American southwest, which resembles an aerial photograph of The City an ancient settlement at the foot of The Paps.citySatelliteThumb

A mythical Asian creature guards the corner. He and the camel represent the animal spirits whose protection and guidance we sought for our travels.  Along the way we journeyed shamanically  guided by the amazing Amantha Murphy and her equally delightful assistant Rose Mummery who patiently and mindfully drummed for us.  The vivid colors in the collage represent the intense exhilaration surrounding this adventure.

Finally, I can never think of traveling without thinking of my friend Naomi Bristol.  She was an inveterate traveler who welcomed new experiences without fear or judgement.  Naomi collected images of camels, a beast identified closely with long exotic journeys. Many years ago I wrote this poem for her, which seems to fit here as well…

THE CAMEL’S CARD(for Naomi Bristol)

 Camel as totem

is hard to define,

exceedingly helpful,

not always benign;

if, in your cards, she

appears on this day,

journey and travelling

will hold you in sway.


Camel can teach you

to walk shifting sands,

carry loads lithely,

state your demands;

garner resources,

reserving and holding

interior wisdom

for later unfolding.


Contrary camel,

who stubbornly spits,

hoarding her genius

to strike with her wits,

appears in the cards

to warn against waste

of talent and temper

squandered in haste.


Feminine creature,

long lashes, soft eyes,

deceptively docile,

inscrutably wise,

guide to the desserts

which hide in the soul,

uncovering well-springs

to keep you heart-whole.

Feminine Circles

Feminine Circles

Feminine Circles

Feminine Circles
July 2015

Circles, circles, and more circles … cups, flowers, wheels, balls, apples, oranges, seashells, our planet, nests, jars, stars, and so on … so much in nature is in the form of a circle. The Circle represents wholeness and is primarily a feminine sign as opposed to a line or cross or phallic shaft representing the masculine spirit. The circle is the mark of protection, a natural shape, a consecrated space. The round table with King Arthur and his men represented the idea of equality . Pagan sacred dances were circular. Stonehenge is a good example of a sacred space. The cup, container of nourishment, the vessel of life giving liquid.

Circles with spirals, spirals as eyes. Circles of petals, crowned sages, deities have circles of gold, a golden disc attached to the back of their head. The red haired goddess clutching a dove, listening to the music of the spheres. The lion with a halo of golden fur around his face, looks as majestic as a sun god. The rose, the lily and the lotus, circles of beauty.

Spirals are very ancient symbols used since paleolithic times and found all around the world. The whorls depict energy, the vortex, movement, winding and unwinding, the rhythms of nature, the seasons, thunder, lightning, rain and water, Whirling energy representing fire and flame, smoke and air. It is associated with weaving and spinning, the web of life, and the veil of the Mother Goddess, controller of destiny and weaver of illusions. The spiral is also associated with the navel the center of power and life.

The butterfly transforming from caterpillar, to chrysalis, to taking flight. Why the parrots? Why the Hen or the stairs or a nest with blue eggs. What does the apple have to do with the composition you might wonder. The apple came to mind when I thought of circles. The Hen begs the question, “What came first, the chicken or the egg?” This is circle thinking.

This collage piece was totally intuitive. I just let it unfold only asking when it was finished, “Why, How, What for?” I looked up the symbols. Chris sent me a piece that included the circles with spirals. I just started looking through my stash looking for Circles and Spirals. I’m pleased with the way the piece has come out and I am willing to let the mystery images be in the composition without completely understanding the why. There is a bit of Chaos about the piece that’s why I love the red haired girl with the dove. She represents the calm, the act of entering. She holds the space, calls for wisdom, calls for inner peace.

The Flower Seller and the Angel


I sent Michelle the half photo of that beautiful man in the background, but it didn’t fit her composition so she sent it back. I really hated to cover any of his face, but sacrificed it for art’s sake.  It represents the face of the omnipotent all-seeing God who originally animates both Floabunda, the flower seller and Phrunel, the angel.  Of course when I started I didn’t have a god or an angel or Floribunda.  I had a man casting his eyes sideways toward someone and holding up an expostulatory hand and I had a woman with an attitude looking back at someone.  I saw immediately that they went together.  Michelle had given me a chair, but it was a little dull.  Chairs and tigers go together so I put the chair on the back of the tiger and voila!  When I used M.’s big basket of tulips to cover up the line of demarcation where the old man ended I realized the woman sold flowers and added a bunch more from my own stock.  I also had a wing like sculpture back from Michele.  I colored it, it turned the old man into Phrunel the angel and there was my story- half unfolded before a single image had been pasted down.  (I admit I wanted a real angel name and so went googling.  Phrunel was obscure and fairly benign – most of the higher orders are quite terrifying.) The pot in Phrunel’s hand had to be added once the story was over.  Originally I wanted something in that hand but nothing fit.  I decided to keep it empty and thought of it as a gesture of speech, which resulted in the necessity for dialog.  The pot arrived as an image at the very end of the composition because now the story demanded it.  It’s so interesting to me how the picture and story play with and against each other creating a virtual picture of right and left brain collaborations.

The Flower Girl & the Angel_NEW

The Flower Seller and the Angel

 There was once a flower seller named Floribunda who dabbled in scents during the winter months. In summertime she gathered and grew, always remembering to thank to each plant and leaving a pinch of sage or a strand of her own hair in return.  As soon as the last bloom was harvested Floribunda dashed for her still room. There she chopped crushed, ground, muddled, mixed and distilled the dried flowers she’d set aside during spring and summer creating potions, balms, perfumes and tinctures to sell at the big Kris Kringle market in December.

You can see by now, Floribunda was an unusual woman.  Her analytical mind and discerning eye had been fine-tuned by years of wild crafting and floriculture. Nature’s innate complexity had tempered her loving heart with wisdom.  Hours of solitude in field, forest, marsh and meadow had complemented long days haggling and gossiping in the market place in honing her intuition.  Integrity was her watchword, Floribunda never answered a question with a question and she never minced words.

Her three constant companions were the serpent Sly, a slender garden snake inadvertently dropped on Floribunda’s toes by the barn cat; Jezebel the rabbit, who’d leapt into her arms from the middle of a flower bed where she’d been busy munching tulip bulbs; and Fredji, a liberated Bengal tiger.  Floribunda had discovered him, skinny, mangy and reeking of dung, huddled in the far corner of a filthy circus wagon.  In her righteous wrath she’d bent the bars apart and pulled him out.  When the ringmaster interfered, she flung a vial of distilled mangrove leaves at his feet.  After the noxious stench had inundated every stitch of canvas in the big top the circus pulled stakes and left, never to return.  It took months to mend Fredji’s wounds and heal his rage, but now he never for a second left her side.

Sly’s talent was to sense falsehood.  He lived in the left pocket of Florabunda’s skirts.  When he sensed dishonesty, pretense or deceitfulness he slithered in and out of her fingers.  Honesty sent him twining rapturously around thumb and wrist.  Jezebel recognized a loving heart, no matter how cleverly disguised.  She was drawn to love like a magnet.   Fredji was simply himself—fierce, loyal, dispassionate—his glacial blue stare warning enough to keep his beloved mistress from any harm..

The angel Phrunel appeared on the first day of the Christmas Fair.  He was a Lesser Angel of Redemption and Hope, who appeared as a benign old man, dressed in green robes.  Jezebel made a giant leap into his arms and snuggled into his chest, ears pressed blissfully against his angel heart.

The huge rainbow wings caused admiration and alarm among the shopkeepers.  Though he folded them carefully, they knocked down a pyramid of tangerines and sent them rolling in ten directions.  While street urchins scrambled for free fruit, their more respectable elders scrabbled after a flurry of  green, gold and blue pin feathers loosed in the elaborate folding of Phrunel’s wings.  He stood twice as wide as Florabunda’s stall and thrice as high.  She reached behind the counter for her chair.  Balancing on patient Fredji’s back she climbed up to where Phrunel could hear her.

“What do you want?” she yelled.  “Have I displeased the Almighty somehow?”

“No, no!” exclaimed Phrunel.  “Quite the opposite. He wants his creatures to amplify their talents.  That’s why he created you. It’s me, I need some help.  There’s a backlog in Heaven and this is so minor, I hesitate to bother Him.

“So you thought you’d bother me!  Well, us actually.”  She pointed at the chaotic mob swirling around them.

“Er, yes.”  The angel nodded.  His eyes filled with tears.  Florabunda gasped and hopped down from her perch to grab an empty green bottle.  She handed it to the angel who carefully guided his huge teardrops into the vial.  Everyone knew how rare and efficacious angel tears were.

“What’s the problem? she asked, climbing back aboard her chair.

He held out a large and shapely hand.  “Wart on my harp finger,” he whispered.  “I can’t play a single note correctly.  I’m so ashamed.”  Tears threatened again, but to Florabunda’s regret he blinked them back.

Once again Florabunda clambered down the makeshift ladder, rummaged in her stores and returned.  She placed a stoppered jar into his outstretched hand.  “Twice a day beginning with the new moon, afterwards bathe the finger in moonlight for three nights running.  The wart will disappear, not a trace left, I promise.”

Phrunel stored the pot in his pocket and carefully plucked a feather out of his wing.  Florabundi gasped with pleasure and hid it under her cloak.

“Time to go,” she said to the animals. “Come on Jez.”

Jezebel simply sighed and snuggled closer to Phrunel.  He smiled and shrugged, unfurled his wings and disappeared.

Sly curled around her left wrist.  Fredji lapped at her right with his sandpiper tongue.  “Tomorrow,  “Florabunda called to the gaping crowd.  “An angel feather!” she thought to herself.  “What will I make with that!”

Through The Red Door


Out the Red Door“Through the Red Door”
(It’s her imagination)

… As the curtain rises, we see little Johnnie all dressed in his new hat, red coat and black boots. He is standing next to the reading chair.
“I want to go outside and play,” he called to his mother.
It was early morning, even his cat Goldie was still asleep. Through the big window behind him he could see the garden with the cone flowers and the white picket fence. He wondered when his Mother would let him go beyond the white fence? He had a sandbox near the stone dove and a hiding place near the fountain. He loved to go through the red door into the garden. But he also longed to go over the white fence across the grass and beyond the meadow. He imagined exploring the forest. He heard there were creatures living in there. Perhaps he would see Winnie the Poo, Brer Rabbit, Mowgli or Mole and Ratty. He was sure the Hundred Acre Woods, the Riverbank, and the Jungle were in there among those far off trees. He wanted to check it all out for himself. He knew for sure that true adventures happened out there because his mother read to him from the night-time storybooks.

She sat in the corner and leaned up against the pillar She had her note book and pen ready and the story started to write itself. It was magical . What is it about the Red door that made her think of her cousin Johnnie. He was such a cute little guy. His daddy had bought him the boots. The black hat had come from her. The red door prompted the red coat with the black trim. Now dressed in the imaginary outfit little Johnnie stood in this imaginary room staring off, his hands clasp in front of him.”

I love the creative process. When I look at the finished Collage new stories and possibilities show themselves. The images prompt a tale of my own creation. Part of the fun of our image exchange is opening the mail and looking through the items enclosed.
Right away I fell in love with the child in the Red Coat. I also loved the Blue Rose. Which can be seen in the collage behind the stone bird. I eliminated a couple images but there were two other images I tried to include but even after altering there size and tucking them in here and there I couldn’t get them to work in this composition.

What’s it all mean? What do I see in the combination of images that have spoken to me?
I love the red door. It is unpretentious, strong but not threatening. I love the view of the flowers, their color, their form. I enjoy considering the white picket fence, the large evergreen tree and the mist on the meadow leading to the forest off in the distance. The chair, its style is formal but the fabric is delightful and reflects the petals on the garden flowers .I had the image of a pile of contemporary pillows for a while. I wanted to use the image but not as pillows. I like the pattern. I turned the pile on its side along the bottom third of the compositional frame but they migrated up to the top. They have a mask like quality to the design pattern, as if they represent a chorus watching the story or theater curtains lifted to expose the stage play. The scene has a safeness, a warmth about it. Is the young woman the child’s mother, his nursemaid, babysitter, a relative or an older sister? I also love the young woman’s gaze. She is lovingly focused on the child. The child is a wonderful, precious, innocent. How lucky women are to “know” the wonder of the new innocent. The cat, curled up under the chair reminds me of my cat, able to sleep anywhere. I find the pillar she is leaning against with its curves very feminine and sensual. The stone bird, missing its beak, makes it hard to tell if it is an owl or dove, both familiars of the Goddess. The blue petals of the rose form a halo behind the bird’s head. A Rose is also very special to the Goddess. This piece reminds me of innocence, safety, love, protection and the playfulness of our imagination.



While waiting for my new images to arrive by snail mail, I’ve been using my collage as a prompt for poetry. So far I’m finding that without a pre-determined focus in the making, my writing is moving more in its own direction and less in mine. I don’t feel so compelled to wring meaning from every image.

In other words I’m stepping off the path and wandering off. I can see I’m still more attracted to purple flowers than blue ones, but at least I am not setting out to pick a bouquet of purely lavender hues. In fact I can pass the violets by without a glance while chasing butterflies…


Aromatic coffee wakes me.

Scent from the steaming cup creeps

into my dream, slips beneath closed doors,

between tight-locked window panes

and brings me back to bedsheets and sunshine,                                                         prompt 1 chris_0001_NEW

crisp-folded napkins, and the morning news.

I blink, changing worlds each time eyes

shut open, open shut.

Staring across the threshold of my tray

into mystic daimon worlds where mystery

manifests in different forms

from native prophets’, I wonder

why familiarity breeds contempt.  How

we fail to honor miracles that surge

like restless crowds beyond the nictitating eyelid

with which we veil second sight, third eye, active

imagination. We notice

the fluttering moth, but fail

to perceive the prescient mites

migrating toward its ear; grab

a fistful of mixed nuts, but never ponder

the strange collaboration between bee,

flood, and fish that lets Brazil nuts propagate.

We scorn connection at our peril.

One wing flapping

can wreck a world

or save it.

This is another piece that came. As I reread it just now, I realized I was unconsciously applying the “I Am One Who” SoulCollage® method of dialog, in which an image in the card is allowed to speak through the artist about itself.


She is the old one, grass green,green elf

shot through with veriditas, wearing

serpent as succubus, confidant, familiar—

ancient chthonic companion, Jezebel

of Eden. The one who tempts us

to love what we are.

Toucan (Two Can!)

Tocan (Two Can!)

Toucan (Two Can!)

I’ve decided to call this piece “Yes Two Can.” She is looking over “… the cowboy, the main Leo the Lion in her life. The black and white cat is also fondly admiring what she sees. The ballerina leaps through the air while the Motorman stares. He has his arms out directing traffic. The spa like pool in the background has a door and wall that separates the scene from the outside world. On the right side of my main figure (me) I have a frog diving down after a fish and a frog sitting on a rock looking back into the past. A white horse is galloping into the future. There are two fabulous blue and yellow Macaws chatting and looking at the garden woman holding two tiny birds. The trees surround her and the snake is moving forward. Don’t ya just love the garden Woman? I find the figure lovely. On the upper left side is the bather who is toweling off as she also looks at the scene below.

As I put together the collage I thought about the differences between the woman and the cowboy. Her with the emerald and diamond earrings and him with leather work gloves and chaps. Her in the spa, him out doors. Behind him is a black and gray floor. The bright yellow daisy is at the center of the collage. The flower is fully open its petals flung back its center open to the sun.

When I found the image of the Toucan I had to get him in the collage somewhere. He is sitting on the lion’s neck. The yellow petals around him. I heard myself say … Yes! Two can.” As I look around the collage piece I see several two’s … two cats, two Macaws, two frogs, two men, even two thistles. Life is better with two.  I enjoyed creating this collage. It was fun, joyful and informative. I’d be interested in feedback especially if there is anything that jumps out that I missed.

I plan to approach the collage work spontaneously, without a preconceived idea. Once the piece is finished I’d like to ask “What has this collage got to tell me that I don’t already know?” If I asked the question “Can two different personalities be happy together … The collage is saying Yes they can, as shown in the combination of the Toucan and Lion.

Out of the 8 images Chris sent me I used 5 and sent back three. 1 image I cut up and used only parts.  I enlarged a few images and shrink some of the others. My first “Oh  yes image was the yellow daisy. I also loved the frogs and the snake. In the Chinese zodiac I was born in the year of the snake. I also loved the thistle on the boarder of the card which I included. I like the idea of being spontaneous and intuitive. Spontaneity is a perfect word to work with in this new challenge.

For those folks that are interested in making their own Art Journal … There is a You Tube video created by Teesha Moore. It is a wonderful video because Teesha makes it look simple. Her instructions are clear and easy to follow .I like that she also shows you how she used her own art Journals. Go to Youtube and type in …Teesha Moore’s Amazing 16 page Journal part 1 of 2.   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1z6qmXGRrsE

Key word for the year- sponteneity


prompt 1 chris_0001_NEW



Noun: the condition of being spontaneous; spontaneous behavior or action.

          “she occasionally tore up her usual dress in favor of spontaneity”

Hello, aloha, zdrastuyte, ahoj,

Please forgive our long silence, in the intervening months we have been searching for a new mutually compatible prompt to spur us on or, more accurately, lure us in another direction. I finally came up with the idea, which I doubt is original, of exchanging images as prompt. We’ll each send the other a package of 7 – 10 images. The recipient may discard up to three but must use the rest in a collage. The discarded ones will be returned to donor and she must use at least 1 in her next collage. the idea is to make something which does not attempt to illustrate a theme or an idea and is created simply as a spontaneous act of creation.

We do understand how very tricky the unconscious can be. Coyote is always prowling around our borderlands. Our clamoring minds as well always want to play- so we will write something about our what we think it might all mean or else create a poem or story to go with it. Hopefully calming both sides of our minds will calm things down and make room for other voices to emerge. The question we want to use is: What has this collage got to tell me that I don’t already know?

To add a further twist, Michelle made us both beautiful books with twelve, gorgeous, blank, pristine pages on which to create our masterpieces. They will be a kind of art journal, underscoring the fact we are not producing these collages for an audience. (You know how in the Music Man Professor Harold Hill says, “I always think there’s a band, kid?” It’s one of my all-time favorite lines, along with Archangel Michael’s, “And you just gotta remember, Sparky – no matter what they tell you – you can never have too much sugar.. .”For me, there’s always an audience. Hence the sop, which includes this blog.

Here’s my new collage, happily ensconced on the first page of my beautiful journal.  It’s made of watercolor paper, with several flaps, pockets and interjections to make it more interesting. I’m hoping Michelle will tell you how to make it or at least give out a link. All the images except for the background, elfish female, green plant and the persimmons are ones Michelle sent to me.  The green elf in the center is a picture of mine she sent back.  She found my elf creepy and ugly. She seems winsome, bold and magical to me- no accounting for all the mysterious associations lurking beneath the surface of our psyches.  The mythic always pops up in my collage and here, once again,  The Triple Goddess. I’ve been reading about Ireland so maybe that’s why this fey green creature appeals so much.  I think she’s the crone of the trio; because she’s fairy folk her five hundred odd years sit easy on her. The doors interest me- perhaps they lead to another world- theirs or ours, which one do the viewers inhabit?  And I just love that spiral pillar though I had to chop off the static bronze flame it originally held, and add a bit of ” green fuse.”  The buttons are cut from a larger strip of paper, itself cut from a printed page.  I couldn’t figure out where to put them so I pasted them on the peacock’s eyes.  There’s a rich vein of meaning to plunge!  Actually, I was thinking of the Neil Gaiman based movie, Coraline, in which the bad mother substitutes buttons for real eyes.. Scary, creepy and clever,clever metaphor.  This collage holds an air of expectancy for me.  Like the moment when the heroine hovers on the top  step of the basement stairs before continuing her descent. Hhmmm…


Change and the River


Drawing Down the Moon_0003

For our new prompt, Michelle and I are changing our focus from the Moon to rivers. I began with the previous post, which still included a big old full moon.  Writing this I began to wonder about the meaning of that Moon in relation to the subject of compassionate acts. I remembered the way Islam divides charitable deeds in several categories – zakah, which is an obligatory giving incumbent on all Muslims and sadaqah, which is private giving over and beyond one’s obligatory tithe. Sadaqah itself has two components -an open-handed kind where one is seen to be doing good works (inspiring other to do the same) and a secret kind, even more meritorious, in which the gift is given anonymously (so secretly that “the left hand does not know what the right hand is doing”). In my previous collage, no one except the Moon is witness to the monk’s act of compassion. I like the idea of anonymous giving because it seems cleaner, somehow.  On the other hand public acts inspire and inform others.  I think its wise to promote both kinds.

Zakah is derived from the verb zaka, “to thrive,” “to be wholesome,” “to be pure.”  Charitable giving is seen as a way to purify oneself from the pollution of greed.  Which brings us back to rivers and flowing waters. Rivers have long been associated with purification.  Partly, I think, because they represent change. Heraclitus said it many centuries ago, “You cannot step twice into the same river.”

Nothing represents change more than a river. They move constantly undulating across the plains and carving furrows through mountains. A river is by definition moving water, unlike a sea, lake, pond or puddle it cannot be defined as a body because it is polymorphous, continually changing shape. It is change that purifies us and redeems us, for the past can never be erased or changed – all we can do is make the present count.   To do that we need to do it differently.  Even if it was good before,  we must accept that we cannot duplicate it.  Attempts to stop change result in stagnation.  We tend to think of dams as good things, ways to control nature (read “change”), but in fact dams kill ecosystems, reduce the fertility of the land and create the possibility for flooding larger by many degrees of magnitude than nature creates on its own.  We are a metaphor of the river.  Our own emotions and psyche reflect the same phenomena; dammed thought and feelings damn us to all sorts of ills, some long-lasting, some so insidious their effects don’t appear for years.

We go down to the river to pray, to wash, cleanse, refresh, renew.  Stepping into the current we become current, we become relevant.

Standing in the river, I am continuously present to what is, instead of what was or will be.



Fish Releasing Ceremony of Compassion



Monk and fishC Series 12-3-2010 1;55;08 PM

The people of Han-tan presented doves to Chao Chien-tzu on New Year’s

morning. He was delighted and richly rewarded them. When a visitor asked the

reason, Chien-tzu explained: ‘We release living things on New Year’s Day as a

gesture of kindness.’ [The visitor replied]: ‘The people know you wish to release

them, so they vie with each other to catch them, and many of the doves die.

If you wish to keep them alive, it would be better to forbid the people to catch

them. When you release doves after catching them, the kindness does not make

up for the mistake.’ ‘You are right,’ said Chien-tzu.

~From the Taoist text, Liezi, dated to the third century CE.


The release of fish into a river or birds into the air is a practice common to all schools of Buddhism. Actually it predates Buddhism and seems to be a Chinese practice well established in Taoist practice by its first recorded written mention. Though modern ecologists argue against the practice – introduction of invasive species, trauma and harm to wild animals during their capture for release, pollution spread of disease, etc. – it is easy to understand why the practice caught on and became so widespread. I first encountered it in Thailand where vendors sell birds for small amounts of money so people ca release them. I have a sneaking suspicion the pigeons simply return to their dovecots and are sold repeatedly. Nevertheless, it’s a wonderful feeling to release a caged creature and watch it fly away. My own heart fluttered in response and I entered the temple in a spirit of gratitude and thanksgiving. I can’t help but think it enhanced the sincerity, if not the efficacy on my prayers.


In Thailand, many households keep large ceramic jars beside the front door to hold the living fish that will become their supper at some point. In a land without refrigeration this makes perfect sense, especially since the best time to fish is at dawn, before work starts, when fish rise to feed on insects. On special days, particularly on Buddha’s birthday, saffron is added to the water to sanctify it and the fish are released back into the rivers from whence they came.


One of the things that rivers represent is “universal potentiality” and the “fluidity of form” and the fish is seen in many cultures as a symbol of death and rebirth; the continuous cycle of life. It makes sense symbolically that to release a fish would be to enhance the effects of one compassionate act giving the consequences of that act a chance to morph and change form and spread in effect.


Sacred and magical as rivers may be, they are probably more associated with human endeavor, history, and culture than any other natural phenomenon. They flow through every kind of environment and have been since the beginning humanity’s road to distant places. We settle by rivers, our cities depend on them. They are nature’s highways and we have used them through all the days of being human and before.


Rivers live in our hearts, our poetry, our art and music –Handel’s Water Music , the Hudson River painters, the River Alph. They drain the land so plants may grow and move the waters back to the sea where they become refreshed, cleansed and reusable. They are the veins and arteries of Gaia and carry her lifeblood within their banks. To return life to the rivers is a sacred and profound act when done symbolically and even more so when actually accomplished as the completion of a physical task.


Hercules is portrayed in myth as cleansing the Aegean stables by rerouting the beds of the rivers Alpheus and Peneus to wash out the filth. Pete Seeger brought us full circle when he attempted the Herculean task of cleaning the Hudson River which had been receiving the waste of human lives and their factories for hundreds of years. Thanks to his leadership the Hudson once again has sturgeon fish swimming up its rivers and tributaries to breed. I can think of no greater act of compassion.



Drawing Down the Moon

The Moon has long been linked to women’s mysteries, particularly their menstrual cycles. The twenty-eight days of a woman’s cycle correspond to the Moon’s own waxing and waning. She is mistress of the dark night whose ebony depths are echoed in the wombs of women and the underground caverns of Earth. In our culture and many other’s the Moon is considered feminine with strong links to a host of goddesses – Artemis, Hecate, Áine, Sefkhet, Cerridwen, Selene, Chang-o, Ishtar, Hina Hine, Mama Quilla ‑ the list is long and comes from around the world.

moon worshipper

Most of the moon goddesses are associated with fertility, childbirth or the protection of women. While scientific data assures us the old stories linking moon and madness have no basis in reality; other studies confirm what women have always known – the Moon can affects their production of hormones and the onset of menses.

Little if any scientific research has been devoted to determining if the Moon actually affects the way plants grow but the amount of anecdotal evidence is enormous. There are over five million references on the web to planting by moonlight. Moon gardening continues to have Goddess knows how many hundreds of thousands of adherents as it has for millennia. Fertility is her watchword.

Women have always gathered on the full moon to perform their rites and practice their mysteries. To this day circles of women meet in circles at the full moon to seek sisterhood, counsel and support from each other.


My collage shows a Mycenae priestess engaged in the rite of drawing Down the Moon, a ritual in which women gather together to focus their attention on invoking the Goddess while their priestess opens herself to the Goddess’s presence and allows Her to speak through her. The priestess holds a snake – powerful symbol of feminine life, renewal and transformation. The snake sheds its skin just as a woman once a month sheds the soft inner lining of her uterine wall.

I can’t mention this rite without pausing to remember Margot Adler who died this year on my birthday.  She is was just my age.  Below you can see a copy of her original well-thumbed and much-loved book. In 1979 we were just beginning to re-member the feminine divine and revive Her mysteries.

Margot Adler 1946-2014 Author of "Drawing Down the Moon"

Margot Adler 1946-2014
Author of “Drawing Down the Moon”













A small catlike form perches on the priestess’s head. Cats were once considered sacred and revered in their own right. Cats are nocturnal creatures, prowling the night with luminous round eyes. They too have a long association with birth, fecundity, motherhood and milk.

People see different things in the Moon – rabbits, faces, buffalo and sometimes a beautiful woman with long dark hair.  My moon is based on medieval Celtic design. It contains a woman tangled in her own hair and surrounded by ancient symbols. She represents the strange and prophetic nature of dreams, visions and intuitions sent by the Moon to those who seek her counsel.  She also stands for the danger inherent in stepping between worlds to engage with either the numinous  or one’s own unconscious.  The gods can drive you mad if you strive to penetrate their mysteries to vigorously, tangling you in a labyrinth of self-reflecting thoughts and imaginings.


If you look closely, you will find several flakes of mugwort incorporated in the design of the background. Mugwort is a common name for several species of aromatic plants in the genus Artemisia, named after the moon goddess Artemis. Mugwort can be used as a sacred smoking or smudging herb for protection or divination. Used in a ritual context it may enhance astral projection, lucid dreaming and altered states of consciousness. Keeping mugwort under your pillow or in your bedroom encourages prophetic dreams.