Moonrise in a Dreamworld

Fresh from a night of adventure, not the least of which was this outstanding moment:

We are descending a mountainous region in the tropics. My husband & others are in the lead, while I am taking the rear, following behind the partner of a girlfriend. I am under the impression that we are in Jamaica, although I have never been to Jamaica, nor do I know if it is in fact mountainous. (The environs very much resemble Dominica for which I have great fondness). 

It is night & quite dark, yet somehow we are still able to navigate & negotiate the trek. 

We are coming upon a sizable ravine spanned by a wooden suspension bridge. The front of the party has already made their passage across the slatted, aerial walkway -- J & myself have yet to make the traverse. Just as we reach the lip of the crevasse, he abruptly stops, reaching his hand back in a silent gesture to wait. 

He tilts his head, looking upward -- to the sky? To the top of the unnaturally large (also admittedly out of context) black spruce across the gorge? Using something as his guide marker(s), he points his finger up and in a short arc down to a particular point along the distant, mountainous horizon.

As if on cue -- save for a moment's hesitation (fashionably late?) -- the Moon begins to crest the dark ridge, glowing, resplendent. Our ever familiar, luminous beauty.  For a moment we watch Her rise in silence & I wonder to myself how it is that he knows Her so well, for it seems a bit out of character. Then, as if answering an unspoken command, we both grab our cameras & play paparazzi to the Moon.

Baladi Moon: Another Homecoming

Moonrise over Nevada. Photo taken on the road home.

Baladi (Arabic: بلدى‎ baladī; relative-adjective "of town", "local", "rural", comparable to English "folk", with a lower-class connotation) -- Wikipedia

Perhaps I neglected to mention yet another migration. Nowadays, our shifting of location is regulated less by the seasons & more by the heartstrings. Thusly, we adapt.

It seems to me that there was no mistake when my dance instructor chose to direct my studies toward Baladi just as we return home -- to my home, the land of my birth & the house I loved at first sight. I am, despite a liberal education & a small degree of worldliness, still a desert rat at the core. 

And don't I know it.

As part of my dance studies, I was given an assignment to document the sounds of my environment. I struggled with this in our Alaskan city's muffled winter... traffic, jets, the humming of the bathroom fan, the sounds of my children sleeping... I felt I couldn't discern much & most of which I did seemed unsatisfying.

And perhaps the truth is that I often don't have the quietude within myself to listen while I am in an urban environment, even one as idiosyncratically wild & magickal as ours. 

But my first day here in this obscure, rural outpost in the high desert I wrote:

"Sounds from my home (the home of my birth, the one from which my blood is made): cattle maaawing at sunrise, wild turkeys cackle like a gang of drunken comedians, the collared doves with their sad-sounding cries, the occasional diesel engine of a truck loaded with hay, or dogs, or children... and SILENCE."

Silence. Silence is the key. Absence of input makes the sensory experience more refined. When the constant drone of the hive is replaced by silence, sounds become staccato -- they are rendered pure. This makes all the difference.


The rest of the family notices these perceptual, perhaps qualitative differences too. Depending on who they are, they mention how the food tastes better, the toys are more engaging or the Sun is brighter & warmer. In this rustic environment, everything moves at a much slower, more relaxed pace & despite the overwhelming amount of work to be done, the sense of pressure is minimal, while the work is somehow more satisfying. 

And the Moon, oh, that Moon! She is always at Her finest. There is nothing, nothing at all like the Moon slung low over the desert, cradled by a Night sky that bears stars that not only can be seen, but are too plentiful to count. 

Baladi Moon. How much more sense it all makes from this side of the journey. All the pieces, they just keep fitting together. Perfectly even. 

Quoth the Fungi: "Evermore." (We Own You.)

Oh, so much never said about our last trespass in the Hight Desert, thanks in large part, to recollections on a ceremony in the Boreal Forest.

Ah, well. Sometimes the dreaded Detail is an imperative.


But now a brief reflection on experiences recently past among the spirits of arid places...

Earthstar Fungus (Geaster spp.)

I wanted to take the children up to the family getaway & rangeland restoration project area for a second visit since the Place is so supremely beautiful -- from micro to macro.

 Peeking through the Indian Ricegrass (Oryzopsis hymenoides). What do we see?

The prettiest, most tenacious things around.

Cactaceae spp.

Cactaceae spp.

Gambel Oak (Quercus gambelii) with a Cynipid wasp gall?

Red Harvester Ant (Pogonomyrmex barbatus) mound.

Indian Paintbrush (Castilleja scabrida).

Salvia, Artemesia spp.?

Ponderosa Pine (Pinus ponderosa).

In the distance, The Aquarius Plateau.

So we packed the tent & a dinner destined for the engine block with the hopes of drinking in the rich Darkness of Night, the starry spill of the Milky Way & the haunting cries of the coyote. Dawn would bring a list a GPS coordinates to follow -- a Red Harvester Ant (Pogonomyrmex barbatus) scavenger hunt, without the scavenging.

But the Desert (or was it the Sky?) had other plans & after the splendor of the setting Sun,

Sun setting behind the Aquarius Plateau.

The Clouds began with their games.

Building pillared temples in the Sky,

And playing the trickster by pouring down uncharacteristically languid, Earth-soaking showers, blotting out the Night sky.

So much rain, that in the early hours of the morning, my father came to fetch us from our waterlogged shelter beneath a copse of Pinyon Pines...

The clay road would soon become impassable.

Wet gear flying into the bed of the truck, hot water on the stove to cut the chill. The eldest child shouts, "Moma, an EARTHSTAR!" 

Ah, I get it now. You own me. You own us.

Wherever we go, you will be there.

And sometimes you will call us home, from one home to another -- when it it time for us to revel in your season.

I depart with a deep, aching sadness, but I recognize full in my marrow, the Hunt is on.

Animist Blog Carnival: Place Magic

GSENM. Been thinking a great deal
about the magic of this place lately.
Photo from the Little Lad's camera.

The Animist Blog Carnival (ABC) is moving & shaking once again & this month it is really chock full of global goodies! 

On this side of the planet, Moma has been up to her armpits in book submission writing, magickal workings, group ceremony-ing, Esbat offerings, flying ointment blessings, seed planting, talisman making, Dr. Seuss reading, snow cursing, snark exchanging, garbage picking, greenhouse prepping, belly dancing, sigil drawing, mental health-fixing, potty training... 

SO... Moma took the short bus to the carnival this month & my recycled submission can be visited here: The Magic is Here & Now.

Our gracious hostess for this month is none other than Ringleader Heather Awen -- visit her post below & peruse the diversity of animist voices in this month's ABC magazine:

Adventures in Animism: Animist Blog Carnival: Place Magic

Magic is a passage. It lies within & beyond.
Photo from the Little Lad's camera.

Bucket List: Places to Visit (For the Files)

Which road leads here?
Image received via Android.* Source credit unknown.

*Special thanks(?) to my sister for leaving me fixated on this place for what now amounts to weeks.