It would be good, I think,
To step inside a rainbow,
To absorb its glowing colors,
To bathe in its warm, soft droplets
as they scatter into light.

It would be good, I think,
To be one with that ethereal arch,
To find that proverbial pot of gold
And know, once and for all,
that all rainbows end and stay
forever in my heart.

Vi Jones
©October 29, 2009

I wandered slowly through the abbey grounds smelling the musky scent of the flowers and bushes as I did so, and hugging a tree here and there. The grounds would be considered by some as overgrown and untidy. True, they weren’t the manicured gardens one might expect. But they exuded a wild beauty that did justice to the abbey itself. The structure soared skyward, its spires punching holes in the fluffy white clouds that drifted slowly across the sky, their shadows following like puppy dogs on the ground.

I stepped inside and was greeted with a draft of cool air. High above, stained glass windows brought in the sun to shine as spotlights on the stone floor. It was an eerie sensation when the saints whose images were cast in the glass looked down on me from above, and up at me from their reflected images on the stone paved floor. I wandered the length of the nave. Hard, uncomfortable chairs replaced the pews I remembered from my local church back home in Wales. A scattering of the faithful kneeled with heads bowed. I felt as a stranger, probably because I had not stepped foot in a church for more years than I care to think about. I had long ago lost my faith in organized religion when I saw all the graft and greed of those so called good people around me. Men who confessed their sins every Sunday, then, on Monday, went right back to their lawless ways. I had worked for men like that. One in particular I remember. He attended mass every day but refused to treat, he was in the medical field, sick people who could not pay top dollar. When he asked me to help doctor the books come tax time, I’d had enough. “Have at it,” I said to him, and walked out of the office leaving him stranded until he hired someone else…someone who I hoped would not be intimidated by his overbearing manner and who would not be a willing participant to his less than ethical ways.

Just before the huge altar with its monstrous Christ on the cross statue, I turned to the left out of sight of the worshippers. I gazed at the stone work and wondered how in the world people managed to build such palaces of God without the heavy machinery and cranes that we would use today. I started to turn away and head back to the sunshine lit nave when I caught sight of three stone steps leading to a tiny door. I looked around for a sign that would indicate it was a restricted area. Seeing nothing that would indicate I wasn’t welcome, I tried the door. It opened, the hinges groaning as if they hadn’t worked in a long time. I was greeted with a musty, not altogether unpleasant smell, but not pleasant either. A narrow, low passage led off into the gloom. The passage was lit by oil lamps set so far apart that the light from one barely met with the light from the next one. The flames flicked slightly so I assumed there was a draft coming from somewhere, perhaps the passageway led back to the gardens. I jumped when the door slammed shut behind me. When I saw that the door could not be opened from the inside…there were no latches or door knobs, I knew I was in trouble.

Vi Jones
©March 10, 2009

I had gotten into lazy mode during our days at sea. Laying around on deck with a good book and cool tropical drinks was habit forming and I had to shake myself out of the lethargy that invited me to stay put. But when I awoke this morning, and we were anchored in a lagoon off White Owl Island, the smell of the foliage and the cacophony of birds singing was just too much to ignore. So, after a hearty breakfast consisting of lean bacon, eggs, grilled mushrooms, toast and orange marmalade, and two cups of rich dark coffee, I returned to my cabin. Fueled and raring to go, I grabbed my knapsack which was already packed with my camera, sketch pad, and a variety of colored pens and pencils. I strapped a lightweight tripod to the pack and threaded a windbreaker through the straps.

I took the shortcut down to the tender that was rocking gently at the foot of the rope ladder. I could have made it easy on myself and gone to the other side of the ship where a more stable gang plank was set in place and where another larger tender waited, but negotiating the swaying robe ladder seemed more like an adventure to me. Silly me, that is how I so often get myself into trouble. This time though, I managed just fine and settled myself in the bow of the tender where I could feel the spray and enjoy the smells that wafted from the nearby island.

* * *

I had been walking for an hour when I came to a clearing in the forest. It was shaped roughly like an amphitheatre. Lush foliage and large, colorful flowers lined the outside edges while, as if a backdrop to what would be the stage area, tall blossoming trees, much like the tulip trees found in the Eastern United States.

I set up my tripod and took a number of pictures before making a penciled sketch of the amphitheater. I planned to color it later from memory and with the aid of my photographs. I sat on the ground and lay with my back against a rock warmed by the sun rays that shone like a spotlight into the clearing.

There was not a sound to be heard other than the birds and the occasional rustling in the grass of some unseen creature and the whisper of a breeze. I wondered why none of my fellow passengers were not around. If I had found this magical place, surely some of the others could as well. I closed my eyes and visualized some of the artwork that would result from my time here.

* * *

When I opened my eyes I realized that I had slept for several hours and it was already dusk. Oh m’god, I’ve got to get back to the ship, I thought, in a brief panic. But then I heard, no, felt rather than heard, a sound. A tiny white owl, much like the elf owls that live in the saguaro of the Southwestern United States, landed on a small tree at the edge of the clearing. But this was no elf owl. He was as white as fresh snow and his eyes, yellow in color, burned like automobile headlights on a dark night. He appeared to look right at me, studying me as I did him for several minutes. I can’t describe the feeling, but I felt we connected in some strange but beautiful way, species to species. Then, without warning, he faded away like a ghost.

* * *

I remembered then something that happened to me at home in Apache Junction. It was just a couple of weeks ago. I had fallen asleep in my recliner chair. An open book lay in my lap when I was awakened by a sound, a whoo, hoo hoo. I listened and heard it again a minute or so later. And again. The sound was closer now, right outside as a matter of fact. I got up quietly so as not to awaken my partner who was in bed and asleep. I slipped carefully out of the back door, stopping and holding my breath when on closing the door behind me, it creaked. It never creaked before so why now, I wondered, when I wanted to be as quiet as I could. Whoo hoo hoo. That sounds like an owl, I thought, but I had only once before heard an owl right here in AJ, and that was several years ago. Owls were not frequent visitors right here, to our gated community. We have a large deck that runs the length of the house. A party deck our neighbors call it. Athough we have never used it for parties per sé, we have held many conversational gatherings here. Whoo hoo hoo. It was closer now, really close. I crept forward to the front of the deck and looked up at the street light in front of my neighbor’s house. There he was, hardly more than a large dark shape surveying the neighborhood, looking for, I suspect, a young cottontail, many of which we do have in the park area itself. Probably a Great Horned Owl, I thought, knowing that they were to be found in the desert, but rarely in a built-up area. Whoo hoo hoo, and then, in silent flight he left. I stood for a few minutes in the glow of the street light, hoping he would return. But, he was gone, looking for, I assumed, more plentiful prey. I realized I was getting chilled standing there as I was in my sleep shorts and a thin tee shirt. I returned to the house and to bed with that whoo hoo hoo sound echoing in my head. Strange isn’t it how certain things, especially those connected with wildlife stay with one to be lived over and over.

Owls were plentiful when I was a child back in Wales, but that was not here in my little corner of Arizona. And here, in the space of two weeks, I had had contact so-to-speak with a Great Horned at my home so-to-speak, and now with this tiny little fellow on White Owl Island. There had to be some meaning for these sightings, their being so close together and all, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what it could be.

Vi Jones

©February 19, 2009

I slept in this morning. Yesterday had been a full day and once again I almost missed my ship. I really must be more aware of the time. But, you know, there are those precious interludes when time doesn’t matter one iota. Yesterday, at the grotto, was one of those times.

When I did finally arise I found I had missed breakfast, but was in time for brunch. I was delighted to see kippers on the menu. I haven’t had kippers since I left Wales all those years ago.

After breakfast I found a lounge chair on deck and stretched out for a nap. Can you imagine, a nap, when I hadn’t been out of bed that long. I could not remember ever feeling so relaxed. There was no guilt weighing me down. I had forgiven and been forgiven in return. The grotto had worked its magic.

I got up and walked over to the rail and stared at the water. It was as smooth as glass and indescribably clear. The bow of the Vulcania sliced through these Lemurian Seas as if they were warm butter. The sun was like a spotlight illuminating the depths where I could see tropical and jellyfish. Porpoise played tag with the bow. In the distance, a whale blew a sparkling fountain into the air while his companion appeared to hover momentarily, as if celebrating, his magnificent tail fluke in the air. There was no pollution here, no rusting cans littering the sea floor, no plastic water bottles or empty milk containers floating about, no oil slicks or sewage fouling the water. We could learn so much, I thought, from this ancient civilization.

I recalled years ago when I was active in the environmental movement. I remember one fight in particular. We wanted to save beautiful Glen Canyon from the dam building craze that choked most of the life out of the Colorado River. Now, all these years later, they are beginning to discover that much of what, based on scientific fact, we predicted is coming true; the silting up and the down stream damage, showing now during this period of fearful drought. In its pristine state Glen Canyon was more beautiful, more spectacular than even the Grand Canyon. Being unable to compete with the moneyed interests, it was a battle we lost.

I cried the day the dam was activated and have never visited Lake Powell. I cannot. Knowing what is drowned beneath its not so pristine waters; a treasure lost to us all in favor of smelly power boats and seadoos.

How can I go there now, remembering the price we paid?

There are moves under way to dismantle the dam. It will not happen in my lifetime, but maybe it will sometime in the future. Perhaps the canyon and all its colorful passages will see again the light of day. By that time I can only hope that human beings will be enlightened and appreciative of Nature’s very special gifts.

I continued an active participant in the environmental movement. The earth was and still is my cathedral.

I came to when I heard the call for lunch, and despite my late breakfast, I was hungry. I gathered in my day dreams and my memories and hurried to the dining room.

Vi Jones
©February 2, 2009

Glen Canyon Photos courtesy of:
J. Willard Marriott Library
University of Utah Library

I had lingered too long at the grotto and now had to make a mad dash back to the ship before she sailed without me. Back on the main trail I had to dodge the touristy types who seemed to have all the time in the world. Skirting the edge of the trail, I leaped over boulders, hoping I didn’t twist an ankle on my landing. Low hanging tropical foliage slapped me as I ran. The ground was uneven and the drop-off steep. I tried not to think of that. Instead I recalled another mad dash to catch a ship before it sailed away without me.

It was in 1978 and I was on a cruise of the Inside Passage of Alaska aboard the Prince George.

I had spent more time than I should sightseeing near Skagway. Time gets away from me often on such occasions. It was evening and I had been out to dinner. I was dressed in, would you believe, a dress and high heels. Ouch! The ship was scheduled to sail at 9:00PM and when I heard the first blast from its horn I knew I was cutting it close. I was in the company of friends, two gals whose footwear was a lot more sensible than mine, especially considering that at that time the sidewalks in Skagway were little more than wooden slats with gaps in all the wrong places. Maybe they are still that way…I don’t know. The gals kept hollering for me to get a move on. I told them to go, not to wait for me. They did. A moment later I was joined by two fellows, Canadian Customs Agents who were sailing with us to conduct business at our ports of call. They had apparently seen my predicament and grabbed me, one by each arm. They ran and I ran, though my feet were not touching ground. We arrived back at the ship just as they began to pull the the gangplank. My two companions jumped the approximately three foot gap with me in tow. Passengers who were lining the deck to watch our departure from Skagway, cheered our arrival.

I arrived at the Vulcania no worse for wear except for being slightly breathless. I slept like a baby that night. Come to think of it, I usually do sleep like a baby when I’m aboard ship…something about the movement and the sea air is relaxing beyond measure.

Vi Jones
©February 1, 2009

Photo courtesy Canadian National.

The path was choked with vegetation but, unwilling as I was to return to the tourist clogged trail, I slogged on, pushing my way through the broad leafed greenery. I began to wish a machete had been included in my walnut shell, but it didn’t, so I had to do with what I had, my arms and legs. It took me three hours to get to the grotto. Distance-wise, it should have taken me only ten minutes at most. When I arrived though, I realized it was well worth the time, the hard slog, and the numerous scratches and bruises.

I was standing in a small amphitheatre with the sparkling waterfall dancing over the moss covered rocks and into a pool that reflected in glorious color the trees that surrounded it, and the huge multi-colored, bell like blossoms that hung like ballet dancers from the branches. So big were they that they caused the branches to bend over. They appeared to be honoring the water.

Having brushed by so much vegetation on the path, I was wet through to the skin. This was not the main grotto where the tourists would mingle, roughly brushing against each other and jabbering like a bunch of loonies. This was the real grotto where I could be with myself and Nature Herself. There was not a soul around, and not a sound other than the dancing water and the drip drip drip from the broad leafed trees. So knowing that I was totally alone, I stripped off my clothes and immersed myself in the inviting pool. The water wrapped around me like a gown of pure silk. I felt my trail weary muscles relax and the weariness leave me; a mist-like cloud that floated for a moment before dispersing into the atmosphere. My movements created ripples in the water causing the reflected colors to become abstracts of such beauty, that I could not describe with mere words and could never recreate on canvas.

I lay back and floated with my eyes closed. I thought about my life…the road I had traveled form the green mountains of Wales to my home in the United States. Memories became jumbled as if they were a page of penciled scribbling. I seemed not to be able to organize my thoughts. Why, I wondered, my memories are usually clear and concise. Gradually things cleared up and I realized that being there in the grotto had somehow eased my mind of any guilt-ridden memories. It was not that I didn’t remember things I had done and of which I was not proud. I remembered them clearly but in a different light. Now they were circumstances over which I had little or no control. I knew the time had come for me to first of all forgive those who I had blamed for my feelings, and then to forgive myself for deeds which I had thought at the time to be best for everyone, but had later come to regret.

I climbed out of the pool and made my way behind the waterfall. I was behind the curtain and in another world. The falling water sparkled like jewels. I recalled the magic of my days in San Francisco, which is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful cities in the world. It was there that I immersed myself in the arts; the opera, the ballet, and the theatre. I loved every moment of my life in the City by the Bay. One might say I lived the high life…for me anyway. I enjoyed dressing up, fixing my hair, and mingling with some of San Francisco’s upper crust so to speak. It is said we go through stages in our lives that are much like chapters in a book, each one takes us another step toward the whole story, or in this case toward the whole person. We do not know when the story will end or how many chapters are left to complete it. We do know, however that each chapter is precious. Each and every life lived is to be found in the universe, complete stories floating forever in memories that live on forever. Those memories are treasures and should be treated as such.

I heard a distant voice and I knew it was L’Enchanteur calling us back to the ship. It was time to move on.

ViJones
©January 31, 2009

The Hidden Grotto

There were a lot of people milling around at the grotto. Apparently the Vulcania wasn’t the only ship in town. I wasn’t going to enjoy the grotto what with all the hubbub. I remembered that about a mile back on the trail, I had caught sight of a piece of wood lying in the weeds. It had seemed out of place. Curiosity, having gotten the better of me as it usually does, I stepped off the trail and picked it up. It was an ancient sign. The words were faded but with much squinting I was able to make them out. The Grotto, it read, Straight Ahead, but underneath in even more faded, smaller lettering, it read, Wishes do not true come easily—they must be labored for to be appreciated. I carefully replaced the weathered sign and ruffled the grass and weeds over it so that it wouldn’t be disturbed again. Not that I didn’t want anyone else to find it, but rather that I felt it belonged there, half buried to disintegrate into the dust of time.

I continued up the path, passing some folks, being passed by some and meeting others coming down the trail. The tropical vegetation was thick on each side of the path, large leaved trees dripping on the smaller with a staccato rhythm that reminded me think of distant drummers calling their villagers. For the most part the greenery had been trimmed back by the hundreds of visitors making their way toward the grotto. I was disappointed that there were so many people. And these were not like my fellow passengers who were all searching in their own way for something. I would have been comfortable with them, knowing that they, too, were reaching inside themselves. There was no way that in this crowd, I’d be able to find myself. Disappointed, I turned back.

When I arrived at the spot where I had found the old sign, I stopped and searched for it—I had thoroughly hidden it. No one would have found it had they not known it was there. I made sure there were no tourists anywhere near me before picking up the board and examining the faded lettering again. I was mulling over it when the board was torn from my hand and thrown to the ground. It landed upside down at my feet. “What the—” When I picked it up again I saw there was lettering on the back side of the sign as well. It read, If you are true to yourself, you will always take the path less traveled for it is the way of the enlightened. It is the true grotto. I read the words slowly and wondered just what they could mean. And why did I feel the board had been snatched from my hand when there was no one anywhere near where I was standing?

I was still standing there when a group of a half dozen people came up the main trail. They were rowdy and had typically inappropriate music blaring. So much for ambience, I thought.

“Whaza matter old woman?” one of them shouted at me. “Too steep for ya. Better go back for your wheel chair.”

I shot him a look I hoped would kill and waited until they had passed out of sight. I could hear the two young gals in the party laughing hilariously at the remark, even after they were out of sight.

I checked in both directions to make sure there was no one in sight before stepping onto what appeared to be a very old and brush covered path. After a half dozen steps I was completely out of sight of the main trail. I could hear voices but soon, they too faded into thin air.

I felt a tingling in my hands and watched helpless as the board disintegrated into dust, the minute pieces raining down into the weeds and disappearing forever.

It was hard going. The path was rough and I turned my ankle on an unseen rock. “Careful,” I muttered to myself. “Break a leg and I can’t just call 911, not from here.”

I moved forward slowly and carefully, feeling for every step. I brushed past the tall broad leaved ferns that had once lined the old path, but had now encroached on the path itself. I was soaked to the skin with the moisture from the ferns and from the dripping trees above them. I was not cold though, in fact the opposite. I was steaming as much as the rich and varied greenery.

While making my way slowly and carefully along the path, my thoughts turned to my first few weeks in The United States. I had been invited to stay with friends who lived in Mount Shasta in Northern California.

I was awestruck by the grandeur of the mountain. It appeared to grow out of the back yard of the home on Iris Street in which I was staying. I had never in my life see anything so beautiful, so awe inspiring. Wow!

I have visited the mountain on numerous occasions since that time and having climbed it in my younger days. Recently I came across an article that read:

In 1932, the Rosicrucians popularized the belief that Shasta is the dwelling place of the Lemurians, super-humans who are so spiritually advanced that they can change themselves from material to spiritual at will. They were described as tall, graceful and agile, with larger heads and much larger foreheads than average humans. Their power is enhanced by a cache of crystals they brought with them to Mt. Shasta when they fled their original home of Lemuria, a lost continent off the Pacific coast that was destroyed by a volcanic eruption. (The name “Lemuria” was first coined in a scientific context in 1864, by zoologist Philip L. Sclaterby, as a hypothetical sunken continent which could account for the migration of lemurs between existing continents.)

It was more than coincidence I thought, that here I was exploring Lemuria. Could it be that my path here began all those years ago on the slopes of Mount Shasta? Could it be our destiny is so clearly defined?

Vi Jones
©January 26, 2009

Image and article from Sacred Destinations. <http://www.sacred-destinations.com/usa/mt-shasta.htm>

Riding the Rails—Again

I had gathered my camera, extra batteries and memory cards, my journal and pencils, along with a bottle of water and a light weight jacket. I also tucked some snacks; nuts, dried fruit, and a chocolate bar or two into my day pack. My walnut shell was tucked safely in my pocket next to my heart. I was eager to explore The Island of the Temple People, and although I had no idea what to expect, I did know was that those had been ashore and had already returned to the ship were changed somehow. They exuded a feeling of well being and of love for their fellow human beings.

When I stepped from the tender onto the dock, I saw the train for the Grotto was waiting. The carriages were open to the fresh air and were sea shell shaped. The locomotive was so clean and shiny it mirrored the images around it. It puffed white steam into the air. I could tell immediately that it was not powered by coal, neither was it a wood burner. Whatever powered it was clean and green. I took my seat at the rear of the last carriage where I could see the length of the train in front of me. The seats were full, though I did not see any of my shipmates. The passengers were mostly women. They were attired in dresses the color of rainbows. Most wore their hair long. Their exited chattering was like music to my ears.

There was no sound as the train began to move forward, no huffing or puffing, no smell of soot, nor were there any of those nasty little particles that stung and burned the eyes. It was as if, one moment we were stationary, then in the blink of an eye, we were moving forward. There was no clickety clack of the rails. The green meadows on either side of the tracks were dotted with wild flowers of every conceivable color. Butterflies. Honey bees, and hummingbirds flitted from blossom to blossom while the larger birds soared lazily above. A small stream bubbled musically over the rocks. Children squealed with delight as they paddled about in the clear water. This is what it could be like, I thought, if we didn’t have the noise and pollution that plagued our modern world. If these, The Temple People evolve as we have done, I hope they learn from our mistakes. On second thoughts, maybe they have evolved so much further that we have.

I leaned back in my seat and allowed the pleasant rocking motion of the train to lull me into an even more dream-like state of mind.

Suddenly I was in another time. I found myself alighting from another ship, one that was tied to the dock near Ellis Island in New York Harbour. It was 1950, and that morning I had stood on the deck and gazed upon the Statue of Liberty as we sailed by it. I was fresh from Wales, a little afraid, very naïve, but as excited as a kid on Christmas morning.

I don’t really recall how long it took, but it seemed forever as I was processed through the gloomy halls of Ellis Island. I thought about the thousands who had been through here before me and wondered how they felt, the uncertainty of whether they would be rejected and returned to the land of origin. Unlike so many of them, I wasn’t running from anything. I loved my homeland. I had after all spent all my life until this point in Wales. I had played, walked, been schooled, and been nurtured by, to use the title of Tom Jones’ popular ballard, The Green Green Grass of Home. If I were not accepted I would be returning to the open arms of friends and family in post war, but still rather austere Britain.

* * *

Having escaped the gloomy halls of Ellis Island, I stood with luggage on the streets of New York. I was alone and lonely and was questioning my wisdom. The feeling didn’t last long though. An American couple I had met on board ship had arranged to meet me and show me some of the sights. Mostly I remember being on Broadway and seeing the lights…they were like nothing I had seen before.

My train for California was scheduled to leave the next morning so I didn’t have a lot of time to take in the sights of New York. Besides, I was eager to be on my way.

The next morning I arrived at the station and hiked the platform to find my seat on board the New York Central. I had ridden the train many times in Wales, but my goodness, I had never seen a train this long. It seemed that I hiked miles, all the time carrying my luggage…no wheelie bags in those days, and I was saving my money so didn’t want to hire a porter. Besides, I really didn’t have that much stuff.

I was traveling coach, and was completely mesmerized watching the scenery passing by my window. I sat up day and night; afraid to close my eyes least I miss something.

* * *

I had to change trains in Chicago and had a several hour layover. There was a fair going on, and it was there I ate my first piece of Southern Fried Chicken. I remember feeling quite embarrassed for the diners around me who seemed to have no table manners whatsoever. They just picked up the chicken with their fingers and ate it that way. How awful! It didn’t take me long though to find out how difficult it was to eat fried chicken with a knife and fork. Soon I threw my table manners to the wind and joined everyone else, eating with my fingers.

Later that day I boarded the San Francisco Limited for the rest of my journey. Once again, I traveled coach and rarely slept.

One thing I remember to clearly is that when the train stopped for an hour or so in Green River, Wyoming, I stepped outside. It was dusty and hot. So hot! It was my first experience with dry heat. When I stepped down from the air conditioned coach it was like stepping into an oven. Needless to say, I didn’t stay outside for long.

The rest of my journey westward was uneventful except for the fact that my mind was being filled to overflowing with fleeting images. I don’t remember a whole lot about my fellow passengers except that they were for the most part friendly. There were a lot of service men on board and they tended to get a little rowdy, but that didn’t bother me overly much.

The San Francisco Limited ends its journey in Oakland where those bound for San Francisco, must board the ferry to reach the City by the Golden Gate.

* * *

My day dreaming came to an end when our magical train pulled up near a waterfall. A sign pointed the way to the grotto. I had heard about the grotto. It was said to bathe in its waters would purify the soul and release one’s inert creativity. And I needed a boost in that direction; in fact I need a kick in the pants. I had been neglecting my muse for too long, allowing other things, unimportant bits and pieces to eat away at my creativity time.

I stepped down from the train, eager to visit the grotto.

Vi Jones

©January 18, 2009

“Who are you…what are you, and what are you doing here in my cabin?”

“You don’t know me?”

“No, I don’t, so you can either go away or start explaining yourself.”

The green glow sprouted legs and climbed back on to the foot of my bunk.

I’m losing it. No, I’ve lost it, gone round the bend, bonkers, daft.

“I’ve been with you since you were a babe, don’t you know that.”

“At my age, I doubt anyone’s been with me that long, especially a fuzzy green ball of light with legs.”

“Well, that’s it…don’t you remember anything your Dad told you?”

“Sure I do, I learned from my Dad…he was a wise man.”

“He sure was, and he hoped to pass some of that wisdom on to you.”

I shivered and pulled the blanket up around my shoulders. What was I doing having a conversation with a ball of light with legs. There was something totally wrong with this scenario.

“Who did your Dad tell you would watch out for you all your life…sit on your shoulder and keep you out of trouble?

I was silent for a moment and then stared with disbelief as the legs sprouted feet…feet encased in pointy toed shoes. Elf style, I thought, and then, speaking to myself, No, not possible. I shook my head willing the curtain to drop on this crazy scenario, either that or for me to wake up from this ridiculous dream.

“You didn’t believe your Dad?”

“Well, I did, sort of, but he would never let me see for myself. If you are who you are inferring you are, why wouldn’t he let me see you?”

“Because at that time I had more power if I remained invisible. It takes energy, you know, for someone like me to appear to a human…they are such unbelieving creatures.”

The ball of light crossed its legs. I watched as it stretched into an oval…pulsating as it did so. Then, two scrawny arms appeared from what I was assuming was a torso. They were encased in green. The hands were gnarled, the fingers long. “Do you see me now?” The headless image danced across the foot of my bunk.

“Well, some parts of you, yes, but why don’t you show your face. Let me really see you.”

“You are such a disbeliever. Here I have sat on your shoulder all these years. I have kept you out of trouble, seen you through some rough times, mostly though I kept you out of trouble, and still you doubt—”

“Oh, at some level I believed, but I never had the proof I needed to really—”

“Proof! Why do you humans always want proof? Why can’t you just believe that there is more out there than you can ever know.” The still headless being threw his arms out in exasperation. “I hate to tell you this, but humans are so low on the intelligence scale. They are learning, but it is a slow process. Trying to make them believe is like chipping concrete with a toothpick.”

“All right, I believe you, but it’s a little unnerving having a headless being riding around on one’s shoulder.”

I flopped back on to the pillow, ready to exit this, the strangest of dreams.

“I suppose—well, we’ve been together so long and all—”

I opened one eye and sat bolt upright. He sat at the foot of the bad, legs crossed, arms stretched out each side and resting on the edge of the bunk. His rosy cheeks glowed. His broad smile belied the fact that his hair and beard were yellowed with age. His green tunic and pointed hat was faded and worn. He was so old. I knew, if I were to believe it, that he had been with me for eighty years. But, he must have been old when he came to me. Despite all, his blue eyes sparkled like those of a child at play.

So, finally, after all these years, I knew what my father had told me had been true. And I have to admit that, despite the lingering doubts that come with being an adult, I had wanted to believe my Dad, and honestly, I had. I heard his words in my head. “A little elf I know is going to be your guardian…he is going ride on your shoulder. He will be there always to protect you. You may not be aware of his presence, but he will keep you safe no matter what.”

I remembered that I had begged my dad to let me see this elf, but he just smiled. “All in good time, my dear, all in good time.” Unfortunately, he was taken from us before he allowed me to see my little guardian.

Sailing in Lemurian waters where anything is possible can make things happen, can even make my little friend visible.

Vi Jones

©January 11, 2009

A strange thing happened to me my first night on board the Vulcania. I had spent the day getting my cabin in order. I had unpacked my boarding trunk and hung my clothes neatly in the wardrobe. A deck steward who seemed magically to know that I was done came and whisked my now empty trunk into storage.

The compact bookcase/computer desk combination I had brought with me fitted well into the cabin décor. It was secured so that it wouldn’t move should we encounter rough seas. My books, several small volumes of Mary Oliver’s poetry, A Trail Through Leaves by Hannah Hinchman, WatercolorPencil Magic by Cathy Johnson, and Into your Digital Darkroom by Peter Cope, had been stowed and strapped in place so they would not come sliding out in the aforementioned heavy seas. My laptop fitted snugly into its compartment. To the right of it, there was room enough for my journal, colored pens and pencils, and other assorted paraphernalia.

I was tired after a full day of arrival and preparation so I slipped early into my bunk style bed. My body seemed to float beneath the colorful down quilt. The design was that of pale blue, tropical waters…a sea with silky wavelets where a myriad of small tropical fish left rainbows in their tiny wakes.

It didn’t take long for me to fall asleep. When I awakened it was dark, except for the moon spotlighting a path through the porthole and onto my pillow. I could not tell what had awakened me except that I thought I heard a voice, one that I could not identify. Out of habit, I looked for my watch but remembered that L’Enchanteur had suggested we leave all time pieces ashore. We would be sailing, she said, by Lemurian time; timeless time is the way she described it. An interesting concept to say the least.

I heard the voice again, or I thought I did. “Who is there?” Looking around, I saw nothing except a diffused green glow on the foot of my bed. I sat up quickly pulling the quilt with me and causing the glow to tumble off the bunk and onto the deck.

“Hey, watch out,” the voice said, “I’m not so young any more and my arthritis…well, it’s been a cold winter, even in Arizona.

What the heck? I was by this time getting a little nervous and beginning to question my sanity.