Celebration of Life
23 Dec 2011 2 Comments
in breathing, change, family, freedom, little girl, mother, passing, words Tags: family, freedom, mother, passing, people, sisters, spiritual, women
Our Mother has passed, we will mourn her absence, but mostly, we will celebrate her life. Our Mother lived strong, wild, ferocious, bodacious. She lived with faith, and joy, and strength.
She left us much, her joy of flowers, her affinity for sunshine, fresh air, natural living. We will, all of her eight children, numerous grand children and even more countless great grandchildren remember her daily.
Countless gestures; we find our hand placed over our forehead, shading our eyes with exasperation. hear ourselves with small phrases, “For goodness sakes.” “Good Grief”. sound like her, we hear her with our own words.
We enjoy chickens, well, some of us. Fresh eggs, apples, bananas. I never could get the hang of Rocky Mountain Oysters and frog legs but I think some of us have.
We have countless house plants, knick knacks, and candles scattered about our homes. Just like our mother.
We have a a stubborn determination to live and survive, our Mother taught that to us as well. She lived greatly.
We will miss her, and we will celebrate her always.
a rather wordy statement on normal
27 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment
in words Tags: breathing, change, dreaming, inspiration, sisters
Some of us have a narrow perspective of normal, our need for control and understanding might place our view of normal into a little box, and when we meet people who do not fit into our defined box, our instincts kick in, we don’t approve of what we see. We do not like different. The disdain we send out affect others, ourselves. By creating a harsh, overstated, rigid view of normal, we also create a harsh rigid environment, one that cracks open when confronted with a very definite deviation.
Judgement not only extends to others, but also to ourselves, sometimes, often times, we find within our soul a need to be other people’s normal, for whatever reason, in response to whatever cultural beliefs. In being other’s normal, we stop being ourselves, we hinder our own up- dance to imagination, and belief.
So, for today….let’s redfine normal, let’s be ourselves. Give it a try.
“If you need to feel normal, you could look at it this way; You’re a normal what-ever-you-are. I’d say you’re the best what-ever-you-are, but then there’s always room for improvement, right?
(Charles De Lint… The Painted Boy)
Who we are
23 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment
in change, freedom, random thoughts, words Tags: dreaming, freedom, inspiration, spiritual, women
Question for the day.
Who are you? What is your definition of yourself? Hmmm. are you possible to define?
So often, others views define us.. Looking in the mirror we find that the eyes looking back out at us are not the eyes we expect, the face looking at us, though familiar may have shadows of other people’s reality blurring its image
So today, look into the mirror, and see yourself!
Stars
14 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment
in change, daydreams, freedom, gypsies, random thoughts, stars, words Tags: breathing, dreaming, freedom, inspiration, spiritual, stars
There are stars whose light only reaches the earth long after they have fallen apart. There are people whose remembrance gives light in this world, long after they have passed away. This light shines in our darkest nights on the road we must follow. – The Talmud
A tribute to Sweet Annie
09 Aug 2011 1 Comment
in breathing, family, freedom, gypsies, little girl, old west, words Tags: breathing, cowgirl, dreaming, freedom, friends, mother, sisters, spiritual, women
Sweet sweet Annie
of many faces.
hippie,cowgirl
earth-mother, gypsy.
Gardener, provider.
Sweet sweet Annie
Kind of heart,
fair of face.
She does not see
What I see.
Sweet sweet Annie
Sexy,Vibrant.
Savior to critters.
She does not see
what we see.
Sweet sweet Annie
Beauty. Lover.
Mother,Sister
Lover,Wife.
You should see from these eyes.
A short story
08 Aug 2011 3 Comments
in daydreams, freedom, gypsies, stories, words Tags: family, fiction, Irish Traveler, short stories, spiritual, women, world
How Matilda came to be. A short story to be believed, or not…
My name is Matilda Evan Jones. I am an Irish Traveler. Often, I am confused, by non-travelers, with the Gypsy. But I am not such. My kind has always been traveling in Britain, from before even the Celts traveled to Ireland to conquer and control. We are not Gypsy, we are, and will always be, Travelers.
Even so, we share much in common with the Gypsies, journeying from place to place, and share much with this country’s own native tribes. We are persecuted for our beliefs, and often find ourselves hiding in order to survive. Survive we do. We make our way, moving from village to city to ocean to mountain to plain, working hard; using the strength of our minds and our bodies.
My own Gram had a sight, the ability to see past the veils of this world into others, and could reach into the soul of another to understand and hear their hidden secrets. From her I received these gifts, and with them, I make my own small living, as I too travel. 
We look to the other world for our spiritual delight. Mab, Queen of all the Fairies we call our own, and the Fairies we are cousin to. My ancestors danced with the Fairies on many a midsummer eve, and many a hallowed eve, ensuring our prosperity and comfort. Together we drew down the moon, and made the small magic’s that kept our world turning.
I can tell you many a tale of my five decades here on this earthly plane, tales of visits with my cousins, tales of time spent with this United States own native people, and tales of my travels, sorrows, and joy. But I will begin, with just the small beginning. To say how I came to this vast and wonderful land of ours, this Western glory.
My Ma; as a Lass, came across the great ocean on a merchant ship bound from the port of Liverpool, in the year of 1825, headed to a port of New York City. Her passage was paid by a grand and fine Lady, and for this Lady my Ma fetched and carried, helping to achieve all of the fuss and froofa that great Ladies must have.
Her private time was little, but one fine morning she happened above decks, to stand with the salty breeze blowing through her hair, and the feel of the sun on her face. A swell rocked the deck, and she tumbled, crying out in alarm.
Now above her was the man who would be my Da, a Traveler as well, who had hired on the ship to earn his own safe passage to the America’s. He worked the sails, climbing up and down the masts, doing all those things that sailors do. Hearing her cry, he looked down, and saw her coppery curls glinting in the light, and her slight form tumbled about the deck. And she, lying on that deck looked up into the sky and saw himself, sun browned and lean, hanging above her.
Quickly he clambered down the mast, and rushing to her, helped her back on to her feet. Looking into one another’s, faces they knew, with their souls that they were meant to be together.
Later that evening, my Ma once more crept above deck, to find Da, waiting, where her heart knew he would be. And thus I was created, and still to this day, I hold in my mind a connected memory of the sound and smell of salty waves rocking against the wooden sides of a ship, and the sight of stars shining down into the water.
I have more tales to tell, if those you would choose to hear. 
Sincerely;
Tilly Jones
My Grandma Schumacher
19 Jul 2011 2 Comments
in daydreams, family, history, little girl, random thoughts, words Tags: child, family, grandparents, women
In the summers I stayed at my Grandma’s and Grampa’s home (my father’s parents) for a week with my female cousins. Honestly, for the most part I hated it, except for a few things. I was homesick, and more than likely a little snot, and Grandma responded in kind with impatience. My hair snarled and she cranked at my tears when she combed it. Did not know my cousins well, never did get to know them.
Here is what I did like…
She had a wonderful wrap around screened in porch on her house and a spiked wrought iron fence around her yard.
My grandpa’s lap
the lonely yet exotic sound of the trains going past at night, while I sat by the window.
My dreams of flying high in the air, and looking at the world below.
And one time, one time only, Grandma unbending, sitting in her rocker, singing.
My best memories are the ones I keep.
The Bones of Me
17 Jul 2011 5 Comments
in breathing, daydreams, family, freedom, gypsies, history, words, world Tags: breathing, dreaming, freedom, inspiration, special events, spiritual, world
We have history, us humans. We have our own personal story and the heritage of the people before us. We have the bones of the past that we can spend moments honoring and clothing in our own skin. We have the bones of ourselves to cover, protect, and move into life.
There is an old story from many cultures about The Bone Woman. This woman lives in the forlorn places of our world, deserts, ocean islands, mountains, and inner city ruins. She collects bones. Look closely and you can see her. Perhaps shuffling down a cracked city sidewalk, carrying a bag or pushing a shopping cart. Watch her and you notice her every now and again bend over, and pick up an object, maybe something shiny, or even cracked. She carefully wipes it clean on her shirt, or coat, or skirt, and places it gently in her bag or cart. You may be a little afraid of this woman, she seems like someone you should not know, someone who does not live the way you are comfortable with. Perhaps she mutters to herself, or smiles at you with no teeth, or smells not the way you would want someone to smell. She does not care that you disdain her. Her thoughts and plans are on the one job she has, collecting the bones of the world.
At the end of the day she goes to her home, maybe a desert cave, or a tree house. And in her home she takes those items she has spent the day collecting, and places them with reverence on the shelves that line her home. Sometimes, when she has enough of the right kind of items, the right amount of items, she sits on her floor, and gathering these correct pieces around her, she arranges them, fastening them together, a colorful stone here, where a heart would be, a bird’s nest fit right where it should go, bones fit together to form a marvelous skeleton of a living creature. Humming softly and quietly a tuneless yet melodious tune she watches this creation stand, usually on four paws, but at times on two feet. She watches and hums as a soft energy forms over this skeleton, and it begins to move, muscles and ligaments begin to grow, holding it strong, and skin or fur shimmer over it all, and eyes blink, and ears twitch, until finally the creature is living and ready to have a life of its own.
Opening her door, or the thin rags covering the entrance to her cave, the Bone Woman beckons to her newly born child, and watches as it bounds outside running free and alive. Running over rooftops, through desert brush, rocky outcrops, wet ocean floors. A story reborn.
We are like that. We rebuild our lives, regain our own stories, hopefully daily. Our lives are a process of fulfillment and growth.
Blessings on your stories my friends!
Age is nothing but a number
09 Jun 2011 Leave a Comment
in breathing, change, daydreams, words Tags: dreaming, inspiration, people, spiritual, women
A short video of a beautiful woman! Ernestine Sheperd is wonderful, pay attention to her my friends, and you will remember that now is always the right time to begin! 71 years young!
