Freedom

children

children of the poor

Yesterday I watched a news story.  Women and children are coming to our boarders, believing that they will find freedom.  Believing in  the American Dream;  met at the border by rich US citizens, turned away, screamed at, disregarded as people.  We furiously protect what we have, forgetting where we got it!

Trail of Tears

We forget that our ancestors came from other countries; pushing out the native people who lived here.  In many cases with genocide.

We forget that our ancestors came, and lived in hovels, worked, scraped, struggled.  So that they could have the American Dream. We forget that they were scorned and terrorized, yet kept coming.  thp-ny-tenementWe forget where we came from.

This is not a treatise on immigration policy, I am not smart enough for that.  This is a call for understanding and love, for a return to our basic values of liberty and justice for all.  What are the words?

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

This is how most of us arrived here.  My great grandparents from Prussia and England with little, working their way here to the Midwest, coming to dream.

Today, everyday, remember and honor.liberty

 

 

 

 

 

 

imagesfireMy wish for you all in this New Year is a time of beginning, positive change, opportunity, and love.  I wish for you a multitude of blessings and prosperity, a plethora of positivity and and abundance of laughter!  I hope for you a great and crazy river of joy!sidney

My years motto… My crazy runs wild and it runs deep!  For you as well, be crazy, be wild, be alive in our coming year!cropped-166343_10150111355198688_756903687_7658541_5736996_n.jpg

May your season be blessed

 

pagan-christmasMay your spirit be joyful, your hearts full of love, your families and friends warm and safe.

May the spirit of God help heal our world with abundance and health on this Christmas day.  Amen

Second Saturday

Life is a real hoot

Life is a real hoot

SECOND SATURDAY

When two friends get together and share delightful news, gossip, dreams, love and plans many great things happen!

When My friend Mara and I conspire over coffee, inventions are created, plans are laid, joy is shared and goodness is afoot!  Life is a hoot, so let’s have more fun  Come and join us at Second Saturday                                                I will be reading palms life is never hiddencrowbar

                                  Mara will be a most fabulous host

    Together we can add joy to your life with our selection of items to peruse   and just perhaps purchase for yourself or others.  Up-cycled art, clothing,  vintage items,

                             Mara’s  Magnificent Mosaics!

 Think Spring!  Think Gardens! Think Art! Think Friendship! 

                                                   Think Beginning!

 

Re-Define Neccesity

I am thankful.  I have more than I need.  I have more than enough.  My home is filled with stuff, my cupboards with food, my car with gas.  I have love, I have family, warmth, friends, joy.

I have employment, enough to live, not enough to immerse myself in conspicuous consumption. 

During my youth I embraced minimal living, reveled in it.  As I grew, I forgot the beauty of less, fell more and more into the trap of gain for the sake of having.

At this stage of my life, I am returning to the basics of life.  And I delight in this.  I am remembering gardening, canning, raising chickens, and glory in the prospects of the fantastic freedom of recreating my life in a simple, less hectic fashion.

 For Thanksgiving, redefine your necessity.  Give thanks.

A short story

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

The Bones of Me

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!

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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

Lost Creek

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