The Lemurian Abbey, which lies beyond the Glastonbury Tor, is strictly restricted to members of the Order of Soul Food, to those votaries who have committed themselves to Making Art A Daily Practice and to building The Lemurian Abbey Community.
"Spring Found Me" . . . Well of course she did! You are an old and trusted friend of the seasons, my dear. There is nothing they love so much as to be simply noticed . . . and this is what you do. You observe, you espy, you mark, you celebrate their quiet joys. Most of all though, you see. You see what others would dismiss as average, as plain, as grey or weeds or everyday. You see and your eyes make ordinary into something rare and beautiful; a very special gift, my friend. Then you hold up your camera or you describe with your simple, perfect words and suddenly we ALL see. A very special gift for the world.
SLAM! (The door blows open. the door blows shut) THAT was not my fault. It was the wind. Her name is Moraiah and she has been traveling with me. She’s great at opening and closing doors and is a real hoot in the middle of the night in a Scottish Castle when she starts practicing mOANing.
The little white peppery chickweed is blooming all over the fields, which are blushing green now. Greening up, that is what Tressie used to call it. We took a walk across the meadow and found what is making the land turn green is the little tufts of wild garlic, the sprouting of wild orange daylily leaves, dandelion greens and all matter of wild things, raring to go.
On this autumnal day, as the Virginia Creeper reddens and the Silver Birch leaves brown I stopped to look at March in the Abbey. Words eluded me and then I remembered John Keats Ode to A Grecian Urn and it seemed to sum up, so precisely, how I felt as I looked at this thing of beauty.
~Child Of Loneliness~
As I sit writing this in the compact space of my red truck a wave of memory and meloncholy sweeps over me. It is three days into the season of Spring and Winter has refused to depart. Snow covers the ground that has fallen into the past of last night. The whiteness of it gives all I view such vastness, and I feel rather small in the scheme of things, today.
The buildings I am parked in front of were used as a sanitarium to house patients who had contracted tuberculosis. This place, set high on a hill is where my Grandfather came to take the ~cure~. His room was situated in the white buildind to my left.
I am trying to imagine how he might have felt here among the tall, blue spruce pines. He remained here nine, long months - the time it takes for a new life to begin. It must have been a rebirth of sorts, both in body and soul.
I was a whole four years old at this time in family happenings. I remember waving to him from outside. It was Valentine's Day, but I don't remember the snow.
He wasn't a tall man, just under five foot, nine inches, slighty taller than myself. The sickness in his body took him to a mere eighty-six pounds. He carefully documented his stay through letters he wrote my mother, along with picture postcards.
From his diary of sorts, I learn he took long walks, there is a library full of old volumes, and each evening he is given a glass of ~blackberry` wine. Of-course he writes of missing everyone and apologises with each letter for becoming ill.
His humor stayed intact as he discusses the events of each day - and the ~rules~. There is no mention of current events, ( I like this ). His concentration, for once, is placed upon himself.
He managed to get special permission to bring books back from library to read in his room, those in charge allowed his personal quill pen and nibs he kept in a wooden box sent from home - along with a bottle of India ink. And last, but not least he was able to starch and iron his own white shirts. I don't think anyone in the family ever asked how he manipulated these ~permissions~.
I have come to the conclusion he went there with a purpose and with very little personal items. He managed to heal and used the time wisely with not more than bare essentials.
This could be compared to my own journey with in the walls of the Abbey. Although, I have no physical aliments to contend with I am here sorting out the spiritual side. I am taking the time to write what my heart longs to say through poetry and create small vignettes of art each day.
It an an extraordinary experience to be here each day and linger in my ~aloneness~ with only what I need and reside in one room. It has been a rather hard habit to put into practice. Resistance is always present. I too, am taking the ~cure~.
Recently, I purchased a book ~Soul Collage~ by Seena B. Frost.
I am still studing and working with archetypes and have created my first soul collage card.
A part of me is a ~Gypsy~. The idea of wandering has always been a part of me.
I feel restless in one spot before too long. If I had lived many years ago I would have chosen
to be a ~Gypsy~. This archetype says mystery or being mysterious is wonderful and not
something to fear.
I am the one who sits cross - legged at your committee table.
I know your passions,
they run like river water toward the mouths of blue oceans.
I am the one who wears flowing frocks, the color of burgundy wine.
Pleated sleeves falling off sunned shoulders.
Colorful scraves cover thick, long, wild hair.
I remove them at night to dance around fires , celebrating the stars.
I am the one who plays the violin.
Red cheeked on frosty evenings.
Warm breath trying to penetrate the chill.
By day I collect notions for making healing potions.
Spiders, Frogs, and Serpents do not disturb me.
I seek wild herbs - violets, thyme and sage.
I string and tie them into bundles,
they hang in a corner of my caravan.
I am the one who does not laugh at old books, stacked by the day bed for reference,
Purple quilt upn it. Over stuffed pillows line the edges.
Antique beige lace curtains sweep the small window.
Pink geraniums planted in baskets, smelling of wet earth,
line the pine board floor.
I am the one who watches over old photographs on the wall.
Bohemian relatives of long ago.
I am the one who wears bracelets of silver, copper and gold.
I wear them all at once.
Their tingle and tangle my music.
I am the one who counts butterflies, in
Purple flowered fields on hot summer days.
I am the one who reads the waxing and waning moons,
And churn butter to the tides.
I am the one who walks through villages in the daylight.
I feel the laughter of the locals.
I don't mind, for under the stars, the laughing, lonely people join me
to look for love in the cards, bringing nickels and dimes.
I am the one who listens to the voice in our mind saying,
it is time to go.
New ground holds the mystery.
***copyright March 2005
Patricia Hine - Stewart
Today beside the Indian Ocean we walked together as we did long ago
If you walk through the blue gate, in to Trendle Ellwood's Lemurian Garden you will find that it is winter.
Heather and I had a lovely time under the shade trees, sipping tea and sharing freshly baked lemon cookies with a zesty lemon glaze. I couldn't resist the hammock and Heather chose a nice chaise lounge.
The smell of lemon cookies baking bought me out of my quarters and down to the kitchen. I will just prop myself and sit talking to you Sharon.
I must admit I've been holed up in my cell for quite some time working on my Altered Book and also writing. But, when I came out into the halls today to check on everyone, not a sound can be heard! So, I wandered down to the kitchen and baked up some wonderful Lemon Cookies. We shall have tea this afternoon in the garden if weather permits. Bring the art or writing you're working on and show us all what you've been up to. We really must get together and inspire one another!
I don't get in to the city very often these days. We are only an hour and a half away from Melbourne but our small town is self sufficient and so I don't venture very far these days.
Spring is coming to the Northern wing of the Abbey so I thought I would celebrate by putting on a special snacklet for everyone.
Screaming orange light that takes one to madness.
At the top of the stair Is the Alchemist's Lair
I sent a query letter out to a publisher early this afternoon AND........I've just received a reply already! I cannot believe it has happened so fast! The publisher has agreed to read my children's book manuscript as an exclusive submission. I should hear back within 3 months. Thank God for email! woohoo! lol....
There's just something about Soul Food Cafe that brought inspiration back into my life. I was struggling after some really hard "bumps" in life and feeling like I was in a dark hole. Heather's invitation to join in and get really involved sparked something within me. The Lemurian Abbey is such an imaginative place that when I immerse myself into what is happening here, I forget the burdens I bear at this time.
I find a room where all the clocks
The light falls too bright
Ice crystals are dancing over my kitchen window,
Here you are Abbess dear, yours is done, more will follow. (I wish the picture were a little bigger)
I don't believe I ever mentioned the music before; I don't know if any one else hears it, at least not in the same way I do. It was one of the things I knew I'd miss most when I came to the Abbey. I listen to music all the time at home, mostly classical and opera, but hymns too, and stuff from the 50's and 60's, and ragtime, I really love ragtime.
You will all be pleased to hear that the Abbess and I have soothed her ruffled feathers.
By the crimson petal forest
Find me standing at the door of the Abby in full regalia, waiting. This is the full regalia, not of an Alchemist or any of the other things I am on the side, but the full regalia of my primary calling: a Poet. This regalia consists of an empty notebook and a pen. That’s it, because that’s all it takes. It may seem simple, but still, it is sacred regalia. I stand here with more power than any single warrior bedecked with a horde of weapons.
Old woman climbing
Abess, Abess, Abess, you get the strangest notions. Serious Countenance? Discipline?? Certainly you don't mean ME!? I am the one who is always doing what I am supposed to be doing . . . Like entertaining distinguished foreign visitors who drop by the Abbey unannounced . . . That Ebony Wilder now, I'd watch out for HER, if I were you!
Will you give us all a break Heather. We know what you really look like. Costello has it all wrong! Trust me! The old Abbess looks more like this.
She builds with bricks of nothing
When I wandered out into the Lemurian Wilderness and stumbled upon the old Abbey I had no idea that so many pilgrims would follow me and help create a vibrant order within the old walls.
I'm beginning to wonder if it is something that we can't always see. I wandered around the other day, completely unable to find it. Maybe the abbess has a clue about this. Anyway yesterday, after another hard day of careful copying out letters and images in the scriptorium, I took the key from it's pouch and tried again. And there it was. The box in front of the door, the door, the keyhole, and the key that makes it fly open. This time I went in and look around carefully and I found a wall of niches with candles so I lit them all.
In Timon of Athens (Act V, scene I) a Painter and a Poet come to Timon’s cave to try and weasel him out of some of the gold it is rumored he has. Unfortunately for them, Timon is on to them and knows them for the using knaves they are, after saying, aside to the audience “Excellent workman! thou canst not paint a man so bad as is thyself.” he flings some gold at the Painter saying “You have work'd for me; there's payment for you: hence!” but to the Poet he says, “You are an alchemist; make gold of that.”
Welcome Megan. I thought I heard your voice down the hall earlier. When I checked the roster, sure enough, your name was on it. I was so excited to know that you are here. I know you have come for quiet, so I will not come running right down to your cell and knock on your door, but I wanted to send you a few words.
Dear Residents of the Abbey,
The gardens here at the Abbey are nothing short of a botanical treasure, permeated with the melodious ping of bellbirds. This afternoon I cut long stems of the Bird of Paradise Winnie photographed and I have put them in a large vase in the Library.
Dinner will be served this evening in the dining area promptly at 7:00pm Abbey time. Dress is casual; a Southern Country Meal from Texas is being served:
I crept out of my cell in the wee hours of the morning. Following my previous pathway to the old ruins, my heart beat faster and faster. Could I catch another glimpse of the lady in the passageway? I wondered as I crouched down in the bushes near the entryway. Sitting there in the still darkness, I waited. She did not show.
modern technology being what it is (smile) the picture of the gate got overwritten by another picture so here it is again