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June 24Holy Junk

June 24Holy Junk

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Published by Robin Rule

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Published by: Robin Rule on Jul 13, 2011
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07/13/2011

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June 24- 2
nd
Entry
Holy Junk 
A List for Betsy S. who is my Comrade in the Attic Bedroom
 
Today I received in the mail a box of holy junk from an old friend I'veknown since I first moved to this tiny town when I was nineteen. She hasmoved back home and taken her Mendo magic with her. And now, she hassent back a tincture of moonlight and a powder of earth mixed by the handsof settlers and once-upon-a-time fairies: an alchemical mixture of the verythings she took with her and then some: a handful of feathers, a piece of paper her granddaughter has carefully drawn stars and a crescent moonwaxing on it, she has added these things to the bundle of medicine.So many friends and relations send me medicine in the oddest shapesand odors and they are all inscribed with instructions that tell me how to takethem for the best results. The feathers are the most beautiful pheasant spotsand stripes and chevrons. It makes me cry to see their colors and textures of beauty. The thin calligraphy of love drawn on rice paper is a delicate potion,and like most holy things, the six year old has left open doorways to theuniverse for me to step through and hear the Love-Voice of G-d, Y'shua, theHoly Spirit. The song of the Trinity sung by a six year old girl will astonishmy spinal d.n.a. and shake my vertebrae like dice into a form of health I hadnot conceived of before. Singing the White Bones of the Moon, we call ithere. And the stars will make maps that show me how to walk into 'How canyou be so close to Narnia and "Step over the crack, don't break yr mother'sback." ' The bowl with an oriole in the center will teach me how to fly afterthey have taken the cancer and left me a pair of wings instead. And a squareplate with a Carolina Wren on it, a postage stamp, a flower are all amulets toreplace the cells that were eating the delicate flesh of a almost 56 year ol’slittle girl breast. All this God-Magic would be too much to bear if I were nota Daughter in His Temple, ala Isadora Duncan, leaping like the hind overhigh places and singing the hymn of love. Oh God Yes, let us sing Love,breathe Love, always breathe says Janet and my comrade in the sparse roomnext door our ceilings so close to the sky that the stars are leaking juice inbetween the joists ah, star-juice, better than hot chocolate before bed with adrop of honey made from the Queen of Sheba’s bees.
 
All this comes with the healing. Learning to forgive old women whowhen young were bad mothers and shameful people and I don't know whothey are now, but my dreams long for their hair to be brushed by my ownhand and in the brushing, the tangles of their badness will fall to the floor. Inthe morning I will sweep it out the back door and burn it in a small pile bythe wormwood and the pennyroyal path. There is healing to be reckonedwith here. There is a time to be born and a time to die. A time to forgive anda time to condemn. In my illness, which has grown worse partly by its verynature & partly caused by the barbed wire anger I grew up with surroundingme all the time like a cage, I have sought health through mazes in caves withonly starlight to guide me. I was messed up by bad genes from in uterolistening to my parents' anger at each other & partly by the fear of a youngman & a young woman wondering if they should be getting married simplyto insert penis into womb just for the feel-good mojo of sex without theHand of G-d guiding them through the matrimony song of "Til Death Do UsPart". It's an arduous task to stay married. I had no guidance. I didn't knowhow to stay married. Or let's put it this way, I didn't know how to choose theright man to be married to for the rest of my life. Like mythic folk, I havestruggled to roll that rock to the top of the mountain and prop it up so that itmay never ever fall down into the pathway of small children again. AndDaniel, the lion-killer, was just the one to step up to the maiden and lifther/me into the curve of that thin waxing moon, like a bed and cover mewith stardust for a quilt while he wrestles the bad cells from my body withhis sheer love of Heroics and regular guys who find pearls in their glass. It’sall magic, I tell you.My artist friend who lives in the desert near where my paternalgrandmother once lived, is sending a box that will rattle when I shake it andwhen I open it, the rattles will turn into puffs of smoke and tic-toks of timethat break off into the whoosh sound of the River Jordan. If I could, I wouldsend some of the water to a sick man in a town a small ways down themountain from me and hope it not only heals him from his cancer, but alsoshows him how the Bird came down in the shape of a Spirit and how theSpirit came down in the shape of a Bird and a Voice opened up the sky andpoured Itself into the River to make all water holy in the Name of.I am waiting for another box to be sent by a woman named for a flower
 
who is related by blood. She has told me on the electronic lines that there isa card, a very nice picture of someone, a very valuable Something, a verybeautiful something and a very old, valuable and beautiful something insideher box. I cannot wait to open these boxes of health and yet I must. Today Iopened the birdwings box & the moon & the stars & the envelope of Hungarian Bread-seed Poppies from Renee's Garden & Rene's my middlename cuz I took the last "e" off the name & gave it to a small child in a redoutfit & a black kerchief tied about her throat as she sat in her mother's lap& that woman used to be the woman who slapped this writer's facefrequently. I now wear a red kerchief around my neck to indicate that I haveforgiven her the beginning of many years of abuse & hopefully it will be asign of the beginning of love starting all over again. In the box that the sixyear old's grandmother sent is a pen holder of great antiquity, a phrase book for Paris where I have been already, but this book is to prove that I shall liveon long enough to go again. A small red book written by Violet Biddlecalled, "Small Gardens & How to Make the Most of Them". Another book written when I was three years old called, "A FRIEND IS SOMEONE WHOLIKES YOU". Another book called, "Chrysalis, Maria Sibylla Merian andthe Secrets of Metamorphosis by Kim Todd. A map called, "Byrdcliffe ArtsColony: 100 Years of the Art of Living", (I believe this is to insure me I willlive on even though it is not sure if I can or cannot have the last major heartsurgery & perhaps to re-assure me that I will be a cancer survivor like Ingridand Carla, and Barbara and so many women have promised me...) A catalogof Fancy Goods made by the Shakers at Sabbath-day Lake in Maine, Ibelieve was put in the box to remind me that I too make simple, but beautifulitems both useful and charming. Also in this box is a packet of heirloomseeds (Marrowfat Peas) with instructions, so that I will have somethingnourishing to eat after I have reconciled myself to the fact that there aremany kinds of healing. One kind is of the heart & the other kind is cardiacand another kind is when they have to cut off a body part and then give youpoison that almost promises to heal you. but they all need nourishment. Atthe very bottom of the box is a small booklet carrying ten carved toothpickswhich I imagine might be used as props for the tiny peas as they grow fromseedlings to larger plants.This is the magic of the planet earth, my second favorite place. I look forward to going to heaven and seeing my Grandma Cutter-Chandler andtelling her thank you for teaching me about Jesus. I want to wrap my arms

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