A slight romantic tale of fiction

youngHer  name was Tirion. A Kale from Wales. Often she was confused with the Gypsy. But was not such. Tirion‘s  kind has always traveled in Britain, from before even the Celts traveled to Ireland to conquer and control. They are not Gypsy, They are, and will always be, Travelers.

Even so, they share much in common with the Gypsies, journeying from place to place, and share much with our United States country’s own native tribes. They were persecuted for their beliefs, and often found themselves hiding  survive. Survive they did. Making their way, moving from village to city to ocean to mountain to plain, working hard; using the strength of their minds and their bodies.

Her own Gran, my Gran many times past, had a sight, theoldwoman 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 Tirion was passed these gifts, and with them, she made her own small living.cards

From her words to my Gran’s Mother to my Gran and to me, I heard this tale…

“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 peoples, 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.

sailor in mastNow 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 Americas. 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 anothers faces they knew, with their souls that they  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 blushed as my gran told me this story, and was thrilled to know of the love running in my veins.

gypsy wagon

Trains in the distance

train_plum_blossomsAs a small child I spent time with my Grandmother Schumacher in the summer.  Nights I slept on the couch, next to her dining room window, and listened to the train  whistle blowing as the train headed through Marengo.  I dreamed of  where the train could take me, the mystery of adventures I would enjoy.

Now what seems like a century later, near our house, across the road and past the swamp is a railroad track.  The sound comes through our open windows in the summer evening,; drifts across on the cold air, like wisps of ghostly sighs, in the winter.  The glory of it’s song wakes me in the evening, and I lay awake wondering where it is heading, who else is hearing its music.

During the day, I can see the train passing, cars heaped with coal, tankers with oil, corn syrup, flat cars holding massive equipment, and trailer cars with names like Evergreen, Pacific, Burlington,Hanji.  The train for all of it’s fundamental use is a magical mystery for me.  Graffiti adorns the sides of it’s cars, art from place and people unknown.

At times, the train stops on the tracks across the road, across that swamp, and its brakes chime a large sweet chime.  The first time I heard this, I thought perhaps fairy had broken through the veil, bringing song.

I am happy trains exist, transporting life.

 

 

 

The lines of your palm

mmpalms  Time for your palm to be read?  I am booking parties for the spring (or even late winter).

Valentine parties, Spring parties, garden parties, bachelorette parties, water parties, birthday parties, just a party.  I love them all. fairy in boat

I enjoy the energy of a group of like-minded people who come together to celebrate; the energy, the joy, and the love all create a fantastic venue for me to read.

life is never hidden

life is never hidden

If you are planning a party of your own contact me.  I would love to read for you.

 

It’s a Beautiful World

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a-beautiful-world-by-afghan-refugee-boys-ages-9-12-years.jpg

My My My

 

Des is desirable

We have a marvelous friend, Des. (Some of you call her Peachy) Des is a dastardly pirate, Des is a rooten-tooten cowgirl, Des is a gentle spirit, and Des is a strong, strong woman.

Des lives in Oklahoma, in a comfortable home filled with old west memorabilia, piratey plunder,  pictures of her many friends, mementos of her incredible adventures and a lot of pink stuff.  She cracks me up with her multitude of personalities and interests.  The thing is, she does all of her interests fully, nothing partial for her.

Last year Des acquired a small pull behind camper, that she has named her pink armadillo.  At this writing she has spent the winter rebuilding the inside, complete with pink walls, a hand pump for water, screen doors, pretty curtains, and in general a lot of froo fra.  It fits her, and it is magnificent.  In the summer she will begin the outside, and personally I think we her friends must start a pink armadillo fund, so that she has all of the where with all to complete this amazing monstrosity!  Every highway needs a giant pink armadillo roaming its lines!

Des loves with all of her heart, and she is so easy to love in return.  She shines love from her eyes.  Des walks into a room of strangers, and leaves that room with life long friends!  My admiration for this talent of hers is unceasing.

We here in the snow packed plains of Minnesota miss her, and have not nearly the amount of time spent with her that we need for our own spirits growth.  Des brightens our lives and is an important person to have here on earth. Her desire to live life fully inspires us to fully live.

Zau has Zest!

My friend Zau is from Angola, born there during a war-torn period.  My understanding is that he grew up in a pretty normal environment, had a loving father and mother, siblings, cousins; a complete life.  His normalcy changed at the age of 12.  At that age he was removed from his home and impressed into the Angolan Army.

His normal existence was still that, normal I mean, a new normal.   Brutal relationships replaced loving ones, his companions were still similar in some ways, and childhood friends grew with him into strong soldiers.  Normal became a tough, unyielding, day by day process of staying alive, staying healthy, living under a shadow of fear.

Zau’s spirit stayed strong through this all, continued to grow, perhaps overwhelmed by the meagreness of his existence over the years, but his spirit prospered.  He continued to love and honor relationships…

When Zau turned 18 his closest companion was killed during combat.  Now understand that the normal procedure for fallen comrades was to bury them at the site.  Zau did not want that for his friend, and did not want the family of his friend to always wonder what had happened to their cherished son.

So, picking up his friend, he left the battle field, making an irrevocable choice to truly believe in compassion and freedom.  He carried his friend home, and left him in the village of his heart and life.

With that choice he also made the choice to leave the war, and the control and sadness that he had lived under, unwillingly for his past years.  He left the county of Angola, and traveled, eventually ending in Rio de Janeiro, where he earned a living creating wonderful jewelry and leather work, and fathering the child of his heart, Zinga.

It came to pass that while he was selling his art in a city bazaar in Rio, he met the woman of his heart, my friend Karen Sorbo.  They recognized the correctness of their love and he eventually left Rio to come to live in Minnesota with Karen.  I had the honor of performing their wedding ceremony a few years ago, and it was right.

Every departure has some grief, and Zau was not able to bring his daughter home to Minnesota, she to this day remains in Rio with her mother.  They live in a destitute area of the city, filled with gang fighting and drugs.  He is unable to convince her mother to move.

At this time Zau visits her as often as he can, supports her and her mother.  He wants to bring her home with him, but is not allowed by our governments to do so; he has no real rights as her father.

If any story I write has a goal, the goal of this story is to send out waves of love to Zau and  Zinga,  to send out waves of hope, and compassion and awareness.  It is my goal to help Zau bring his daughter home with my words, and hopefully with the spirit and heart of you who are reading this.

Summer dreaming

Dreaming of summer, and always…change in the air!!!

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Tilly Evan Jones

“I want to think again of dangerous and noble things. I want to be light and frolicsome. I want to be improbable and beautiful and afraid of nothing as though I had wings.” ~Mary Oliver

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Lost Creek

Old West Lore, Old West Leather, Chuckwagons, and More