May you find yourself loving you. May you love you first among all things, in both action and contemplation. May you soak up the returning light to the depths of your beautiful being and shine, shine , shine! Step into the light, Baby! For when you sparkle, so does the world.
Views of the studio…
The wild and beautiful faerie heart in me,
honors the wild and beautiful faerie heart in you.
Here is a story about the old ways. I could give you a historical explanation of its origin, classifying it as myth (The folk story of the blue faerie hag heralds from the Scots. She was believed to emerge from the underworld on All Hallow’s Eve, etc.). I could detail how the old myths mingle with our collective psyche and bring healing and renewal, etc. (Blah, blah, shamanism, blah.) But then it would make it all sound not so true. Like it’s just a story or something. And it’s all much truer than we care to admit. So pour yourself a cup, and simply open your heart and read.
Once a girl was, yet she was tender. She wandered the woods near her grandmother’s house and felt her own tenderness with great pleasure and innocence. The eyes and creatures of the woods were on her in hushed respect. The trees whispered and marveled, “her countenance…” The stones sounded silently of her beingness. Sometimes she would sit by the stream and make ‘paint’ of crushed berries and leaves to adorn the rocks. Always she would hold the rocks to her cheek first. Feeling their alliance. She was tender and could feel and sense like this.
As years the years passed she was a woman, and she was yet tender. But, yet, not so tender as before when she was young. Things happened, not always nice things, as life goes, and the tenderness receded. The woods were far away and lost to her. Then all tenderness was lost.
She wondered, “Where did the tenderness go?” Then she forgot. She forgot about the tenderness she felt. She slipped into the dreamless, sleepless amnesia of the forgotten trees and stones.
The trees and stones did not forget though. They never do. They may not yearn as human creatures do. Yearning for what is gone or cannot be, but forget? No. Especially the stones.
One autumn day a mysterious task of the ‘no room for tenderness’ variety appeared on her list of to-do’s and she found herself near her old woods.
She walked into the welcoming hushed admiration of her woods. Sitting by the river she picked up a stone. It was cold and smooth. Bluish, grey. She held it to her forehead and cheek to feel it’s smoothness and then her lips and nose, to smell its dank fortitude. She drank it with her being.
She put the stone to her ear because the stone began to tap and sound. Rattling and knocking. It grew outside of the stone, all around her in a rhythm. It rumbled onto and into her chest like a thousand beating hearts.
Before her, (or maybe in her mind’s eye, or maybe in the corner of her eye), (oh, just, never mind) before her appeared an old hag. Her aged stone-like skin was blue with cold. Her hair was brittle with frost and her cloak the color of withered foliage and death. She bore a basket and a staff with the skull of a raven. But her eyes, you guessed it, her eyes, were tender.
The stone song grew and in an instant she knew inside her was a massive urn filled with the stones. Each stone heavy with the weight of all those ‘not nice things of life.’ The urn too weighty to bear or shift it pressed the tenderless woman down. Without words the blue faerie hag directed her staff at the urn, shaking it open with a massive soul quake, spilling the stones.
The stones danced into the air. The stones rattled and knocked into her basket. Every last one of them. And then the old hag just sauntered off into a mist. Cause that’s how those magical faerie things end.
It was now winter. The woman felt empty and alone without her urn of stones. But it was a good kind of empty. And a good sort of alone. She grew to enjoy it. For she discovered there was, in the emptiness, yet a tenderness. And she could rest in this void for a time whilst preparing for spring.
And she a woman was; yet she too was tender.
And may you rest deeply in the arms of the blue hag,
After a year and a half of travel this beautiful Tara returned to me.
She was with me in my condo before my beloved nomad year. Another lifetime ago it seems. A treasured gift from one of my parent’s many travels. She was my companion in plenty of my ‘dark nights of the soul’ as well as joyful days of dancing yoga in the sun.
When I went nomad she was tucked away in a friend’s space.
And now she is returned. Upon opening her storage box and seeing her, I gasped, with pleasure. I nearly forgot. But I remember now…
Tara was returned to me to coincide with the flash of beauty in death that comes with autumn’s spectacular blaze of vibrant leaves before the deep sleep of winter.
Both remind me to treasure the beauty of things passing. To enjoy the cycles of life. And to allow myself rest and reprieve when the time is right. To ready myself for rebirth. And beauty.
A little blog I wrote, published on the Harbor Country Chamber of Commerce website about the Acorn Theater in Three Oaks, MI. My home village…
By Doreen Stelton
To feel enveloped in a welcoming place with friendly folk. You know this feeling? You know it. We all share it. That desire to connect with others, to get social and commune. Perhaps even sharing a deeper experience together, basking in the beauty and mysteries of life. For a lifetime, a day, …
After a year of Free Range Faerie-ing I’ve got a new place. An actual, physical home and studio. I’ve settled in Three Oaks, Michigan. How’s that for a faerie name?
It’s an artsy small town on the southwestern tip of Michigan filled with friendly folks and only 3 traffic-less miles to the nearest forest.
I even have a job at the cozy Acorn Theater. (Another faerie name.) Where I am meeting great people and filling my life with music.
I’ve forgotten how much effort goes into running and setting up a home! (So I haven’t been in the writing/perfuming/or social media-ing much.)
Truthfully, it’s been a bit stressful and exhausting with February behaving downright weirdly for me. How’s your February?
But Missy’s been a great help…
Here’s an vintage chair we scored.
And then the other night…
I am sleeping and curious noises, giggles and the tinkling of bells, drift from the studio. Flashes of color and the scent of rose and loam fill my dreams as I explore an old victorian mansion filled with creatives and jokesters. At dawn I wipe the sleep from my eyes to discover the perfume/writing studio all put together.
Let’s see how long I can keep it tidy.
AND I’m excited to offer yoga classes again! I’ve decided to keep the beautiful living room as a yoga room… (My class schedule is right here on the Verdant Yoga Page).
Finally here is a glimpse of the view from the backyard. What is seen from the studio window…
I’m thinking fire pit and sunset dinners…
Settling here completes a goal for the first quarter of 2017 and the second quarter goal of this year’s Celtic calendar. It also satisfies a life-long curiosity of life in a small town. So yay me!
A time of awakening, yet not quite yet awake, my sleepy faerie friends. A stirring from the deepest slumbers of winter. Emerging from the time of the north and the element of earth. Swap the rich balm of Oakmoss, Patchouli, and dank thawing earth, with hints of blossoms and fruit saturated in thickly winter-aged, spring-honeyed nectar. Brash, then vanishing. Urging us forth. Wintry snow/rain cleansing for the early snow buds and the time of the east. The element of air wherein sylphs grace the ethers with softly muted florescence.
Awaken! Awaken! Awaken!
As a child I would anticipate the spring by imagining the fair folk prepping their paints deep under the roots of sleeping oak trees. Cruelly crushing berries, mosses, and barks. Coaxing iridescence from clouds and shadows. All for the Spring Faerie Queen’s vast cache of aromas and pigments created with express purpose to gloss on delicate blossoms with wee paintbrushes of spider threads. I would anticipate with glee the those first colors and scents of thaw, green, and tender blossoms.
Xkeban was lusty as she was beautiful. Lust coursed through her body unchecked. A libido as big as the hot at the peak of a summer’s day in the Yucatecan jungle when you can do nothing but lay in your hammock and sweat, too hot to even fan. That’s how big her lust was.
That’s right, I said, unchecked. And in the little Mayan village where Xkeban lived, the sway of her hips as she lead her many lovers off to her palapa or worse yet, to the jungle, filled the more sanctimonious villagers with condemnation.
And in the hearts of the villagers, the Yucatecan heat blazed in a hell-storm of fiery condemnation for that “floozy,” Xkeban. And fan this fire they would. Especially one villager named Utz-Colel.
Utz-Colel was just as beautiful as Xkeban, but she was pious. She did not let her secret passions drive her to look brazenly into the eyes of the men. Or to openly leer at the curve of their low backs, (you know, that dip just above a man’s buttocks where neatly fits a hand) as she “accidently” brushed her swelling breasts up against him in the market place to reach for the ripest mango. Nope. Utz-Colel did not even think of such things. She did not give into these passions merely because it “felt natural” as Xcaben was prone to. Really. No, never.
Yet… whom was it the villagers called for when they were ill and needed someone to sit by their sick beds dampening their fevered foreheads? And who was it that took in the goats when past milking age? And the old dogs too lazy and useless?
Have you guessed it? Not the pious Utz-Colel, but Xkeban. Because Xkeban’s heart was as big and kindly as her lust. Truly, even bigger. And while Xkeban would use the finery gifted her by her lovers to feed the indigent. Utz-Colel would scorn those below her while she twisted her ribbons and dark thoughts into her black braids. For inside she was bitter and Utz-Colel’s heart was cold as snakeskin.
One day a most delicate and sweet perfume filled the air of the little village. The sublime intoxicating effects of this aroma caused all to seek its source, leading them to the home of that (good-hearted) slut, Xkeban. Her time amongst the living was done and there she lay, and from her wasted body emanated this fine perfume.
Well, Utz-Colel was in disbelief and swore up and down that when she died she would smell one hundred times better than that whore, Xkeban…
A few good-hearted individuals who remembered Xkeban’s kindnesses arranged for her burial. The next morning the fragrance was even more pronounced. Scent intoxicated once again, the villagers followed the perfume to the grave of Xkeban to find darling little flowers, the Xtabentun flowers, had proliferated on her grave!
Time passed and, I suppose you can guess what happened when pious and haughty Utz-Colel died. From her body emanated a foul stench so unbearable the villagers could barely stand to plant her in the earth upon which they hastily flung various flower seeds before scurrying quickly off.
But the next day only a spiny, odorless, cactus flower, called the Tzacam flower bloomed.
Well from the other side of the grave, Utz-Colel became furious about this and arranged somehow (it’s a secret) to return from death and remedy this perfume problem. She decided she would wantonly seduce as many men as possible just as Xkeban had done. Then she too could smell of fine perfume and produce darling little flowers on her grave.
Now here is where my tale turns cautionary. So listen up, those of you who think this seduction plan is sounding… interesting.
Villagers beware! Utz-Colel has now taken to posing sensuously under the Ceiba tree at the edge of the village, languidly combing her long black hair. And if she lures you into the jungle with the sway of her ample hips in the delirious heat of a Yucatecan summer’s afternoon, you will not be seen in the village again. For the bitter, soul-stealing sex of Utz-Colel is like making love to an odorless cactus flower on a foul and cold snakeskin bed, and it is believed her savage wrath against Xkeban will be your demise. Really.
Just thought you’d like to know.
This tale is my retelling of a traditional Mayan tale. It is an absolute true story of how the Xtabentun and Tzacam flowers came to exist. If you don’t believe me then just go ahead into the jungle with Utz-Colel and see for yourself.
~For My Mom~
This month will find me heading to the Yucatan Peninsula as a tour leader for my parents company Mexi-Mayan Travel. We’ve a group of lively and curious travelers including my parents. All avid learners and explorers and some archeologists and anthropologists. We’ll explore Mayan culture and history as well as the local flora and fauna. There’ll likely be some margaritas and excellent sea food…
As special gift to our group I’ll create for them a fragrance based on their group scent memories of our journey. Each person picking one or two outstanding (pleasant) scent memories. Then I’ll blend it up!