Mystical Quill Productions

Remedies & Portals

2009-11-12T15:41:00.030-05:00

Creativity and inspiration are underused remedies and portals

to a more incredible existence.

How can we dispute

that we were meant to exercise our creative muscles?

For when we do,

We achieve

Timelessness,

Bliss,

Kindness,

Energy,

Better health and

The divine validation of creation.

–Jill Badonsky

Without the spirit-energy-induced prodding of a respected creative colleague, I would not have attempted the writing exercise that follows. This inspirational genius, Chez J. Bean, believes it is essential to, much like a fabulous organic salad, toss the creative process thoroughly. Then…

ADD THESE INGREDIENTS:

A Splash of Magic Elixir
A Dash of Exotic Seasoning
Grant Permission to Play
Float in Foolishness
Let Go of Limited Thinking
Unearth New Ways of Looking at Something
Experience the Wonder of the Process
Forge On Imperfectly
Embrace Non-Linear Practices
Move Forward Two Baby Steps
Slip Sideways
Make Stumbling Okay
Pay Tribute to the Wonder of the Moment
Swim Naked In Gratitude

VOILA!

Postscript: The next 15 entries below (whew!) represent the first draft of a chapter(s) in an upcoming novel. It is a work of fiction. This work is the intellectual property of Royce Addington and is protected by copyright.

A Handwritten Note

2009-11-12T14:37:00.013-05:00

Michael’s Handwritten Note
Tues: January 11, 2000

This is so tough I can’t believe it. We are in Key West with no place to live. The good news is, we’re staying at the Casa Marina Hotel, on the Beach Boy’s KoKoMo Beach. We are very low on money. We have no car. Bought two $60 bikes at K-Mart. Today, Bruce in California said my Audi will be sold on Friday at 10:00 am – Thank God. I’m 46 years old. No job – I plan to sell real estate. Very interesting. Putting all the stuff we didn’t sell and brought with us in storage. We are trying to settle with Damian – He owes us so much money, more than 3 million dollars. Damian is mentally ill. He is a predator. I feel bad for him. 10th Street Job is going down the tubes. We don’t have the money to fight for our money. Daniel is not doing well. I feel Daniel is being destroyed by Damian too and that is killing him – How is it possible that identical twins could be so different? With Mom and Dad are Norman and Stanley - believing Damian over me, Daniel and Molly. Mom and Dad gave Enid their 2 million dollar house. Enid’s family moved in a week after we left California and she didn’t say one word to me. Again, Molly gets the shortest straw from Mom and Dad. Not to mention the rest of us. I never thought they could show more favoritism than changing the will but they did. Very sad. My family was my life and they totally betrayed and screwed me. New life now – I feel like I am losing a ton of weight. Molly is a love. I am lucky to have her as a sister. I hope she and Jack do well. Faye and I are closer down here. I am looking forward to a new life and success in real estate.

Liv'in Life...AIN'T FOR SISSIES

2009-11-12T12:45:00.012-05:00

Growing older and liv’in life ain’t for sissies. After forty-four years, Faye knew this Bette Davis maxim to be an irrefutable fact. She sat on the cool terra cotta floor of her newly rented Key West bungalow reading the torn piece of binder paper on which Michael had written his thoughts. She felt a trespasser but didn’t stop reading. The words made her heart weep with his pain. She found it quite curious that he had neatly folded the crumpled paper in half and paper-clipped it to a glossy photo page of young innocent faces found at the bottom of one of the brown cardboard moving boxes he had kept out of the storage unit.

Formal Portraits

2009-11-12T11:46:00.006-05:00

Formal portraits, each child framed within the professional school photographer’s perfectly aligned lens. The entire class precisely organized on one page. Twenty-four freshly laundered regulation white shirts. Twenty-three freshly laundered regulation white blouses. The boys had an open collar. The girls rounded collars were demurely buttoned-up with a western looking, bow tie at the neck. The faded black and white photos of Michael’s fifth grade class stared up at her from the dog-eared, water-stained album that his mother organized and put together some twenty years ago as a gift to her son.

The class of 1963-64. St. Anselm’s School. Sister Mary Agatha Rose, Principal. Miss Meehan, Teacher. Faye remembered Michael telling her about Miss Meehan, “Yes! Her name was pronounced Miss MEAN! And she was! Looking back, I’m guessing she didn’t like kids or maybe it was just boys. She even made Jimmy Wheeler cry. He was one of the toughest guys in the class, and she MADE HIM CRY! One day, Ms. Meehan was driving along in her car and caught Jimmy, Larry and me leaving the school grounds on our way to Bing’s to buy some candy, a strictly forbidden activity. When she discovered us, we were petrified and feared for our lives, literally! I’m not exaggerating!” Faye smiled at the memory of Michael’s wide and expressive sparkling blue eyes as he told her the story.

Michael’s class picture. Forty-seven cherubic Catholic souls looking so winsome. No longer babies but real little people with all the trials and tribulations that life had to offer. Faye’s thoughts drifted as she studied each face closely. Then, in the fourth row, second from left, she found Michael’s photo; his happy smile with a haircut so short it looked as though his ears stuck out from his head. Faye loved his ears. They were small for his head and had perfect conformation. The photographer must have had his ‘staging’ set at just the wrong angle, casting shadows and making most of the boys look as though they had large, protruding ears.

Faye felt an overwhelming rush of protective love for all the children on the page; particularly the one that stole her heart. Looking into their open faces, she couldn’t help but wonder what happened to each one of them. Did they have a happy childhood? Some of their eyes looked so serious, stressful, even sad. Was Destiny kind to them? How did each child’s unique and wholly personal thread come to express itself in adulthood?

Ten years old. In 1963, their lives were just beginning. And now, some thirty- five years later, questions crowded Faye’s mind. How many of them were still alive? Who had they become? Did any of their childhood dreams come true? Where did they live? What did they do? Who did they love? How many children did they have? Were they happy? Did any of them stay in touch with each other? Faye knew the answers for one little boy.

The Rhythm Method

2009-11-12T11:26:00.007-05:00

Fertilization of a Human Egg

Faye, a proud ‘born again pagan,’ had to confess she owed the Roman Catholic Church a deeply heart-felt debt of gratitude. If not for their strict and rigorous teachings that artificial methods of birth control are irrevocably immoral because there is, after all, only one purpose of intercourse in a marriage – the procreation of children - then Faye would never have met Michael Duncan…for he wouldn’t have existed at all. Thankfully, the Church did, begrudgingly, approve of and suggest: If birth control were absolutely essential to the physical or psychological survival of a marriage then there was one, AND ONLY ONE, approved practice. The Rhythm Method.

Faye playfully guessed at how many of the wonderfully angelic faces were the result of ‘The Rhythm Methods’ abysmal failure. Fifty percent? Seventy- five percent? Studying the photo was akin to stepping on a Star Trek transporter pod; her thoughts disintegrating into a luminous energetic stream streaking through time and space to reassembly at a place long forgotten; her assigned desk at the prestigious San Domenico School for Girls. As one of only two non-Catholics in her class, Faye curiously observed her fellow classmates dutifully soaking in the Word of the Lord during the required hour of religious doctrinal teachings as offered by Sister Hubert, the gentle, but firm Dominican nun who ruled wisely, but compassionately, in her seventh grade classroom.

It was because of Sister Hubert that Faye created a secret tiny altar in the far back of her bedroom closet. She had taken two cardboard shoeboxes and covered them with a beautiful, hand-embroidered piece of perfectly pressed white fabric Nana had brought home from one of her round-the-world cruises. On top of this she carefully placed a miniature statue of the Virgin Mary, painted in soft pastel pinks and blues. Just before Thanksgiving vacation, Sister Hubert had given a statue to each member of the class as, “…a gift of gratitude for having such wonderful students.” Sister Hubert explained, “The Virgin Mary is always watching and listening, a kind and loving Mother to all of us. If you ever need to talk to someone, no matter what, she will be there to listen. Pray to her anytime and Blessed Mary will hear you.”

Those words gave Faye a great sense of comfort. Kneeling before this miniature shrine, she would wear a white starched and ironed pillow case on her head, secured with a black headband as though it were a veil; wondering what it might feel like to be a nun. She never told anyone about her secret refuge where she could escape when stressful, sad or scared.

Sister Hubert and her kind discipline possessed amazing power,

“Ladies, once again the Roman Catholic Church defines history. Our beloved Pope Paul VI confirms and upholds the traditional Roman Catholic rule, as outlined in his significant papal encyclical. He writes: “…each and every marriage act must remain open to the transmission of life.”

Pausing, she looked around the room, her small rimless glasses sparkling from the glare of the overhead lights. She had perfected the art of a dramatic moment. Her impeccable posture, flowing long white robes, black veil and stiff wimple created a rather formidable presence; significantly adding to the impact of her words. The only sound that could be heard was the gentle clicking of her black rosary beads rhythmically bouncing against one another as she glided back and forth at the front of the classroom. Sister Hubert cleared her throat and continued, “Ladies, I must emphasize, the Roman Catholic Church opposes ALL METHODS of ARTIFICIAL birth control.”

Pregnant pause.

“However, it considers the Rhythm Method NATURAL and ACCEPTABLE.”

Sister Hubert, as though her words were a laser beam forever being branded onto their potentially miscreant minds, walked slowly and deliberately around the entire perimeter of the classroom before turning to the huge green chalk board. In perfectly formed letters that looked to be two feet tall she wrote:

THE RHYTHM METHOD: N-A-T-U-R-A-L & A-C-C-E-P-T-A-B-L-E, underlining the five words with great flourish as she announced, “Ladies, we will now see how Church doctrine is maintained through the discipline of science. Please open your biology books to page 19, where we will learn what exactly the Rhythm Method means, biologically speaking, of course.”

There was always an uncomfortable yet anticipatory riffle of excitement that hummed through the classroom whenever Sister Hubert approached anything close to the forbidden topic of S.E.X. It was on this day in 1968, that Faye always remembered with great fondness; for, without the teachings of Sister Hubert, she might not have known to thank the Roman Catholic Church for the love of her life. Blessed be the Rhythm Method.

As Fate Would Have It...

2009-11-11T16:23:00.006-05:00

Monarch Butterflies in Flight

By: Raul Touzon

As fate would have it, Faye Monroe met Michael Duncan on a breezy spring afternoon in April 1973. Before that day their paths had crossed, unknowingly, several times. Growing up in the same small town, they had often been only steps from each other, literally; never realizing it.

It was five weeks before Faye’s high school graduation. Unbeknownst to her, she had been ‘sized-up’ as she walked down the wide, long corridor that led from the school’s main office to the library absorbed in thoughts about passing finals and the seemingly ominous decision of where to go to college. As discussed the previous day, Faye decided to pop her head into the Dean of Students office and say a quick “Hello” to Mr. Hennessy. The students knew him as ‘Satch’; at least when they weren’t in trouble. Satch mentioned to Faye there was someone he wanted her to meet, “So, stop by my office after class tomorrow, say around three.”

Faye was intrigued. A few minutes after three the next afternoon, she knocked on Satch’s door to see if he were in. Indeed he was and not alone. Sitting in a battered wooden chair across from his desk was a nice looking fellow with sandy-blonde hair and very muscular arms. Obviously, a weight-lifter.

Next to him, perched casually on the wide window sill was one very good looking, very tall, very strong guy. The ‘tall’ part struck Faye right away. Being six feet tall herself, one of her first prerequisites was height. At almost eighteen, she had finally become more comfortable with her unusual stature. Even the nickname, ‘Amazon Queen’ didn’t bother her so much anymore. Faye’s inner voice was busily yabbering, This guy is definitely tall. A jock. Great eyes. Great hair. I wonder who he is? Before she looked completely like a deer caught in headlights, Satch said, “Zel (another of Faye’s nicknames, from the basketball player Zelmo Beatty) I want you to meet two guys that used to go to school here and gave me nothing but trouble!” They all chuckled.

“This is Matt Hamilton, and that guy over there is Michael Duncan.”

Faye looked directly into his confident, mischievous sparkling blue eyes. This guy was a Hottie! Years later, over cocktails, Faye confessed to Michael, “I was so discombobulated the first time we met. I don’t even recall if we exchanged greetings or said anything to one another in Satch’s office.” Faye remembered nodding to Matt and Michael, trying desperately to look unimpressed as they discussed something to do with weight-lifting. How long she stood in Satch’s office remains a mystery. She felt partially paralyzed. Her stomach flitting-around like a herd of butterflies on speed. Finally, there had been a pause in the conversation; the perfect moment to take her leave as she uttered the appropriate, “Nice to meet you. Bye.”

Michael never knew it took an enormous dramatic effort by Faye to attempt a relaxed, indifferent exit from Satch’s office. Once, safely out of view, she practically ran down the echoing corridor and into her refuge. A ’65 Ford Mustang. That car was the love of her life. Her freedom. A soft, yellow exterior with black faux-leather bucket seats. Automatic. Brand new radio with hi-fidelity speakers. Wide tires with racy mags and Cherry Bomb high- performance glass-pack mufflers that rumbled in perfect pitch. Faye adored cars. Her friends teasingly called her ‘a greaser chick.’ She was a good driver and knew it. Faye liked nothing better than to drive fast with the windows down and the radio set to KFRC blaring Stepp’in Wolf’s ‘Born To Be Wild;’ the wind blowing her long cinnamon hair recently sun-streaked with blonde highlights, thanks to a revolutionary new product called ‘Sun-In.’ Those moments were her idea of pure heaven.

On that April afternoon, life was feeling very, very good to Faye Monroe. She pulled out of the high school parking lot and onto Sir Francis Drake Boulevard. Her pesky inner voice blared in her ear. Do you think he’ll call? No! Who are you trying to kid! Isn’t he that popular guy? Captain of the football team with Mark Lewis? Wasn’t he going with the star of the Senior Play, I think her name was Peg. Yeah, I bet that’s him. I heard they were supposed to get married. I wonder what happened. I wonder if he’s the same guy?

After several repetitions of this dialogue, Faye could feel the adrenaline buzzing through her system. On and on her mind raced. Whew, what was that all about? I’m trembling. I’m energized. I feel giddy. Geez, get over it! I wonder if he’ll call?

The White Princess Phone

2009-11-11T16:10:00.005-05:00

The white princess phone sat on the bedside table. A birthday gift from Faye’s parents when she turned fifteen. Almost three years of constant use had taken a toll. She couldn’t begin to count the hours spent talking with her sister Blythe; sharing and solving so many of life’s problems. Even the soft, luminous light that came on when the receiver was lifted had worn itself out. Faye found herself starring at the phone, willing it to ring with a call from the infamous Michael Duncan. She had learned this little trick from her father. When you want something to happen, you must think about it happening first. See it in your mind. Faye practiced this exercise every night for four consecutive days before the phone actually rang and Michael Duncan was on the line.

Their first date was set for the following Friday night. Michael explained, “My father’s contracting company worked on the new Hyatt Regency Hotel in San Francisco. This will be a VIP grand-opening celebration for all those who worked on the project.” Michael's voice filled with pride, “I was one of the people who worked on the hotel. Would you like to go to the party with me?” Faye hesitated for what seemed an appropriate amount of time before answering, “That sounds great. What time will you be picking me up?”

“How about 6:30. Cocktails start at 7:00 and dinner to follow. I think it’s a fairly dressy affair with music and dancing.”

Michael spoke so quickly. Faye paid very close attention in order to understand him. She had never heard anyone talk so fast. If Faye’s music teacher were to describe his speech, he would use the word staccato – quick, clipped, separate notes of enthusiastic sound.

Faye, of course, was impressed but tried to sound casual, “OK, see you at 6:30. Do you know where I live – in Sleepy Hollow?”

“I do. We lived out there for almost three years when I was in grade school.”

“What street did you live on?”

“My parents built a house on the corner of Butterfield Road and Sleepy Hollow Drive. Do you know where I’m talking about?”

Stunned, she answered, “Yes, I do! In fact, it’s almost directly across the street from my house. When did you live there?”

Michael sounded surprised as well, “Let’s see, from the 5th grade until the 8th grade. So, that would be 1963 until 1966.”

Faye interrupted him, “Were you that family with lots of kids? Were you always outside playing basketball and riding bikes?”

Michael laughed, “That was us! Amazing. We lived across the street from each other and never met. How is that possible? Sleepy Hollow was like that.”

Tucked Away...

2009-11-11T15:44:00.005-05:00

Tucked away in a picturesque rolling valley just a few miles north of downtown San Anselmo; Sleepy Hollow had many dramatic and interesting incarnations. In Mrs. McBride’s fourth grade class at Hidden Valley School, Faye learned the land’s early history included Miwok Indians and Spanish land grants. It was even said an old Spanish trunk filled with gold coins had been hidden and never found. In 1850, the valley became a dairy farm leased by one Harvey Butterfield. The dirt trail that led to the dairy was known by locals as ‘the road to Butterfield’s place.’ Learning Sleepy Hollow had been a dairy made sense to Faye. It solved the mystery of all the huge bones she was always discovering in the large creek that curved behind their house.

The icy-cold clear water slowly tumbled over large smooth rocks as it traveled along the valley floor, all the way to the Pacific ocean. In spots, the water was even deep enough to swim. She spent hours searching for the lost Spanish treasure, uncovering more cow bones in the process. Over the years, Faye amassed an amazing and unusual collection that she proudly displayed in the old gardening shed that sat at the far end of the orchard. The dilapidated structure’s roof had been constructed using sheets of corrugated green plastic which created a strange glowing light on the interior, making it all the more mysterious and just a little bit scary.

Once, on a hot summer Saturday, Faye discovered a huge beautiful pink and silver fish struggling to swim in the shallow waters upstream. She ran to tell her father. He was hard at work raking up the swollen overly-ripe fruit that had fallen from the peach, fig and plum trees in the orchard. Excitedly, she grabbed his hand and dragged him down the steep rocky slope to show him. He was astonished and explained that the fish was called a wild salmon. That was the day Faye learned about the wonder in nature called spawning. She loved listening to her father’s handsome voice and the words he used to teach and explain things. It made her feel respected and intelligent.

For Miss Noble's Fifth Grade Class

2009-11-11T11:14:00.007-05:00

Hotaling Mansion Steps

Photo by: Paul Penna

For Miss Noble’s fifth grade class, Faye had to write a very important report on Sleepy Hollow’s history. Part of the grade involved reading her report in front of the class. This made her nervous but she was determined to get an “A.” Faye walked three miles to the San Anselmo Library in order to look at the historical archives. The kindly librarian, Mr. Phelps, helped her find what she was looking for. An old, sepia-coloured book explained: In the mid-to-late 1800s, a Mr. Peter Austin acquired the land. He planted the now-famous eucalyptus and poplar trees lining “Butterfield’s Road” to create a shaded canopy leading to his planned luxury hotel, golf course and artificial lake. Almost immediately, Austin had to abandon his life’s dream due to financial loss and foreclosure. He sold the property to the wealthy, eccentric Hotaling family. They owned A.P. Hotaling & Company Whiskey Distillery located on historic Jackson Street in San Francisco. The Hotalings built an impressive mansion at the end of Butterfield Road, featuring a Romeo and Juliet style balcony to accommodate their many plays and famous bohemian-style parties. The Hotalings named their grand estate ‘Sleepy Hollow’ in honor of a close friend and favorite author, Mr. Washington Irving, who penned The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

For reasons lost in time, living the country life grew boring for the cosmopolitan Hotalings. Faye liked to think they had been haunted and frightened away by old Indian spirits. The Hotalings returned to San Francisco. They sold their estate to dairy farmer, Sigmund Herzog. In 1910, Sleepy Hollow became the first certified milk dairy in the United States.

By the 1930s, Herzog’s dairy had been transformed into a beautiful golf course; the first play-as-you-go, 18-hole course in the West known as the second largest golf course in the world. The golf club disappeared in 1939. The land was given to the U.S. Army in preparation for World War II. Secret bunkers and stockpiles of artillery and ammunition were hidden in the hills. Military trucks, filled with armed-guards, patrolled Butterfield Road. It became ‘off-limits’ to the public.

Faye kept reading. The famous Hotaling mansion survived all of these transformations. Then, in 1946, a Mr. A. G. Raisch purchased the house and an additional five hundred acres for the then princely sum of $50,000. Not to be outdone by the property’s notorious history, the rakish and globe-trotting Mr. Raisch held lavish parties.

Faye remembered her grandmother, Nana Mil, telling stories about cocktails for six hundred being made in cement mixers while live orchestras played under crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings of beautiful striped canvas pavilions installed on the grounds.

Mr. Raisch’s impressive estate sat vacant most of the time. Mysteriously, it burned to the ground in 1957. Only the concrete basement walls surrounding the empty indoor swimming pool and a wide set of sweeping stone steps remained.

Ever the adventurous tomboy, Faye made numerous solitary expeditions to the charred remains. On foot, it took her almost half an hour to get there. Inevitably, she would stop-in at the Sleepy Hollow stables to pet the horses and watch the giant goldfish swim in the outdoor metal drinking troughs. By bike, it took her half the time.

The abandoned stone staircase and enormous vault that had once been a magnificent swimming pool were far spookier than anything she saw on Saturday monster-movies. She made a great adventure of sifting through the bits of expensive broken china, crystal, burnt-out appliances, ruined antique furniture, scorched draperies and other intriguing artifacts that had been abandoned. Faye fancied herself an archeologist looking for undiscovered treasures.

Sometimes, Faye arrived to find a group of boys rummaging through the site. Everyone loved to climb down into the pool and run across the steep slope to the deep end. They made a race of it. Back and forth. Faye would watch from above, perched on the highest stair which overlooked the basement. How many times did I nod and smile at the boy whose life and future would become inextricably woven with mine?

The Dominican Order of the Roman Catholic Church purchased the land in the early 60s. Their new acquisition extended from the end of Butterfield Road, far back, into another undeveloped valley and surrounding hills. The Dominican nuns had innovative plans. In 1965, their new ‘state-of-the-art’ school opened its doors. The ‘Lower School’ referred to grades 1-8. The ‘Upper School’ grades 9-12. The beautiful and expansive campus included an equestrian center, tennis courts, a hockey field, an Olympic-size swimming pool, as well as a student center, dormitories, gyms, a cafeteria and dining room, a music school and a lovely small chapel. The vacant cavern of the original pool disappeared. But, the stone stairway of the Hotaling mansion was restored and became the revered location for Upper School graduations.

In the Fall of 1966

2009-11-11T10:28:00.009-05:00

Artist: E. Loren Soderberg

In the fall of 1966, Faye started the 6th grade at San Domenico’s Lower School. She smiled each time she pedaled her shiny new gold Schwinn Stingray bicycle past the haunted Hotaling stairs on her way to class each morning. Faye knew all the secret places and trails that existed on campus and spent many afternoons exploring and climbing to the top of the rolling hills. Lying on her back and disappearing in the tall sweet golden grass fueled Faye’s vivid imagination. Her weightless thoughts floated up to hitch a ride on one cloud and then another as they changed shape and moved across the sapphire blue sky to Scotland, Italy, Spain, Morocco, Australia and beyond; taking her to visit her sister, Blythe, and all the places she dreamed of seeing someday.

By 1960, the stately eucalyptus trees, planted in the 1800s by Peter Austin, had grown into huge towering pillars. This pungent green canopy lined both sides of Sleepy Hollow’s two lane road as far as the eye could see. Austin’s landscape design had been successful. The impressive trees created an impression of motoring down the most spectacular of driveways. Extending almost three miles back into the valley, this avenue ended at the entrance to San Domenico School. Charming side streets meandered off Butterfield Road, both left and right, up into the hillsides with street names that were pure delight to anyone who knew about Ichabod Crane and Rip Van Winkle.

There was nothing else in the world like experiencing the spooky festive night of fun-loving spirits on All Hallow’s Eve in Sleepy Hollow. Every year, Faye and her friends looked for the headless horseman to come galloping down Butterfield Road with his cape flying. The thought of it gave her delightful shivers.

Faye knew Michael had to have knocked on her front door to say, “Trick or Treat.” How many times did I look into his eyes as a child, never realizing my future was standing right before me. All these years later, Michael still teased her, “Want some candy, little girl? Tricks and Treats! ”

From Faye’s earliest memories, the entrance to Sleepy Hollow was designated by rather simple, rough-hewn, ranch-style wooden gates that had been constructed on each side of Butterfield Road. On the left gate, a large sign announced, ‘Sleepy Hollow.’ These mysterious words separated the development from the rest of San Anselmo. Every time she passed by, she would glance over to the inviting red house tucked back among the lush green trees. Jon Carroll and his brothers lived in that house. He was in her class every year until the sixth grade and she liked him very much. He was kind to her and a rebel. Faye envied his freedom, toughness and independence.

When Faye’s parents first drove through the rustic gates into Sleepy Hollow in 1961, they were mesmerized by the behemoth lots. Some of the ‘estates’ approached three acres in size. The impressive trees, the charm, the beautiful homes were captivating. Buying the sprawling and romantic ranch-style home on Butterfield Road was almost a miracle for the young couple.

At twenty-nine and twenty-six, Stewart and Jan Monroe couldn’t afford the original asking price. But Faye’s father, a handsome, brilliant and bold entrepreneur, looked the elderly Italian owner in the eye and explained that this was the house of their dreams, the home where they wanted to raise their children. All they could afford was substantially under the asking price. The owner, a wonderfully kind and gentle man, decided to give the handsome young couple one of the greatest gifts of their lives. He agreed to the price they could pay.

Faye lived on Butterfield Road until she left for University in 1973. Her parents, her sister Blythe, and brother Quigs lived there another four years before choosing to trade-in what had become a cosmopolitan and sophisticated lifestyle for a beautiful log home built on a secluded lake hidden in the majestic mountains of western Montana. Seeley Lake High School’s basketball coach believed his prayers had been answered when Quigs walked onto the court as a six foot, five inch junior.

In 1963, Michael’s parents fell under the same spell of Sleepy Hollow. Barry and Edith were thirty and twenty-nine, respectively, when they bought a lot and began building their large new custom home on the corner across from Faye’s parents’ house. Edith was pregnant for the seventh time, and they had quite literally outgrown their existing home. The five bedrooms planned for Sleepy Hollow Drive would be a dream come true for the young and prolific couple.

Their kids, all six of them, were a humming hive of seemingly inexhaustible activity. The boisterous sound of children’s happy voices, laughter, splashing in a pool, doors slamming, and basketballs hitting a backboard filled the quiet neighborhood air. The new family across the street made a huge impression on Faye. She wondered if any of the children were twins. She had seen a TV movie about two boys who were identical twins. They looked exactly alike. So much so, even family members couldn’t tell them apart. One of the boys had a good heart. The other boy was evil. He lied. He stole things. He set his brother up to take the blame for things he did. In the end, the evil brother destroyed the good brother. The story had upset Faye so much she had a hard time going to sleep that night.

When Faye explained to her mother how much the movie had upset her, Jan Monroe became exasperated, “They shouldn’t be showing stories like that on TV! Kids are watching, for heaven-sake! These silly dark movies are just made-up. They don’t happen in real life. Don’t take it seriously. Next time, change the channel. Or better yet, turn it off! Go outside and breathe-in some fresh air. That blasted box is dangerous. I’m beginning to think, you shouldn’t watch it at all!”

Faye wasn’t convinced. The story seemed so real. She decided to talk with Blythe, her best friend and sister, about it. Every Sunday, Faye was allowed ten minutes on the phone-call to Italy. She had learned to be prepared for these calls. Sharing her week, full of details, was a challenge. Faye didn’t want to forget to update Blythe about the new family across the street. She knew Blythe would tell her to walk over and introduce herself. Faye knew she wouldn’t do it. It wasn’t about courage. She was just comfortable and happy being alone.

Faye Was The Oldest Child of Three

2009-11-10T16:44:00.010-05:00

Artist: Marta Lavandier

Faye was the oldest child of three. Her sister Blythe, almost two years younger, was born with extraordinary gifts. A precocious child, Blythe lived away from home most of the year. At the tender age of eight, she already spoke three languages fluently and played the clarinet with such beauty and grace that it brought tears to the eyes of all who heard her music.

Faye’s parents agonized over the decision to allow Blythe to study with the greatest and most revered teacher alive, Italian Maestra Marina Sturmizi. Maestra Marina was not only exceptionally brilliant and beautiful, but a kind and loving human being. She assured Faye’s parents that Blythe would live with her in Italy and be treated as a member of the family. Maestra Marina believed in disciplined structure; it was important for Blythe to study in three- month increments. The fourth, eighth, and twelfth month of each year, she would be allowed to return home to be with her family in California.

Blythe took to this arrangement like a delighted mermaid to water. She loved living at Vizcaya, Maestra Marina’s amazing storybook villa. The household was a boisterous one: Three happy dogs who thought of themselves as human beings; the gregarious and kind housekeeper, Signora Soila; her gentle husband Leo who tended the vast and enchanting gardens; Kimo, Marina’s coveted vegetarian chef from Tahiti; and Twink, Kimo’s extraordinary girlfriend, an irreverent and brilliant bohemian who had won Maestra Marina’s respect and became her personal assistant. Twink was fiercely protective of Maestra Marina. In short order, everyone realized an irrefutable fact: To schedule time with the Maestra, one had to get on the good-side of Twink.

Italy was the most beautiful and magical place Blythe had ever seen. The romantic colors and diffused golden light were magnificent, straight out of a fairy tale. It frustrated her no end that she was unable to describe the beauty to Faye over the phone. When Blythe practiced her clarinet outside on the Villa’s ancient stone terrace, she felt an incredible lightness; being so completely present in the moment that time ceased to exist at all. She became one with the music, giving away her heart and opening her soul.

Because of her heightened perceptions and gifted intellect, Blythe loved to read all that Einstein and Carl Jung had written. She was the first to admit she didn’t understand most of it yet her private tutors encouraged her to keep reading and asking questions. Every day became an adventure in learning. She never studied in a classroom, but instead learned by interacting with each new environment. The many field trips to libraries, museums and days spent exploring ancient gardens were among her favorite activities.

Working side by side with Leo in the villa’s impressive gardens, the kindly gardener taught Blythe to identify and nurture each of the sensual flowers, tender plants, herbs and vegetables. He explained to her that gardening was much more than digging in the dirt, pulling weeds and hoeing. Gardening was an exquisite art form; a process requiring great respect, care, patience and love. Plants were powerful. Leo shared secrets, learned from his grandmother, and her mother before her. One November afternoon, Leo pointed to a wistful clump of ‘naked ladies.’ Blythe knew them to be autumn crocus.

“Colchicum autumnale. According to my great-great grandmother, the Romans discovered these rather sad looking flowers produce an amazing tonic which cures gout.”

Blythe looked puzzled, “Leo, what is gout?”

“Gout is a painful malady, often excruciating. It causes joints to swell, especially in the toes and feet. A tincture made from the autumn crocus, in very small doses, will cure it. My grandfather was a one-man spokesperson, attesting to its miraculous power. He was so proud of my grandmother’s ability to heal people. I remember her gentle hands. She never turned anyone away from their door.”

The antique marble-topped iron table in Vizcaya’s entry hall always had the most glorious profusion of towering fresh flowers handpicked by Leo. Twice a week, like clock-work, Signora Soila lovingly arranged them in a huge clay pot glazed the color of green olives. On chilly evenings, especially when she missed her home in California, Blythe liked nothing better than to stop and inhale the sweet heady fragrance of the wondrous bouquet as she crossed the hall into the Villa’s impressive library.

The library was Blythe’s favorite room. A quiet oasis that invited dreamers to indulge their imagination. A place where anyone in the household could curl-up with a favorite book and disappear into the story. The inevitable tensions of everyday life were to be left outside. Any residue of stress seemed to be magically absorbed by a deep sense of peace and serenity. The stucco walls, a mottled pale shrimp-pink, were filled, floor to ceiling, with every imaginable book. As the companionable fire crackled in the massive stone hearth, Blythe could read about anything: Music, art, design, gardening, travel, philosophy, health, cooking, classic literature, history and, to her delight, there was every single volume of first-edition Nancy Drew Mysteries. Books were dear friends. She never felt lonely around them.

The embrace of an enormous wraparound wing chair covered in the softest fade-gold velvet had become ‘hers.’ Blythe talked to her family from this chair every Sunday afternoon. Snuggled into the soft feather-down cushions, she would cradle the ivory coloured old-fashioned receiver as though it were a magical glowing device that connected her to California. The library was a sanctuary; providing the necessary respite away from her beloved music.

Blythe knew she had been born to play the clarinet. Even the endless hours of intense practice brought her a sense of joy and satisfaction. She loved traveling to new and exciting places. In the last three months, performances had taken her to London, Barcelona and Australia. But going home to share secrets with her best friend Faye, and be the ‘older sister’ to their new younger brother, Quigley, filled her heart with a happiness she knew nowhere else on earth.

Of course, Blythe and Faye had their disagreements but unlike most sisters, they were kindred spirits. Blythe was filled with excited anticipation because she had sent Faye a special gift for her birthday; a beautiful poem in a simple wooden frame discovered at a small antique shop in the local village. Above the poem, the artist had drawn an arch; as though looking through a window out onto a beautiful Italian garden bursting with softly hued flowers. Roses, snapdragons, sweet peas, iris, daisies and hydrangeas. Leo had taught her well, Blythe could name every flower in the print.

The hydrangeas reminded her of home. One day, Blythe hoped to show Leo and Signora Soila her beloved Butterfield Road. She knew they would clap their hands in spontaneous delight to see the row of massive blooms which lived below the wide front veranda leading to the perfect, glossy-white front door. One beautiful summer day, Blythe had helped her mother pick the perfect hydrangea to take to the paint store. The front door paint had been meticulously mixed to match the pure, fresh white of the exquisite flower.

Along the entire length of Butterfield Road were masses of pink, purple, blue and white hydrangeas. Camellias, peonies, rhododendrons and precisely trimmed hedges defined the old brick walkways which welcomed everyone. Huge old roses, the color of sunshine and red ruby slippers, climbed on the crisp white fences. A massive wisteria vine encased a secret patio garden dripping long heavy cones of purple flowers that almost touched the ground. Blythe knew Faye would love the painted flowers and the poem by J. P. McEvoy. Written some thirty years before she was born, in 1924, it explained their bond perfectly. “You are my friend – you warm my heart. In all my thoughts you have a part. In all I say, in all I do, there is a comforting bit of you. I see your smile. I feel your hand. I hear your voice and understand. No word will mar, no deed will end. This comradeship of ours, my friend.”

Until their baby brother made an appearance, Faye and Blythe had grown up almost exclusively among adults; they had nothing to which to compare it and felt perfectly comfortable spending their days in the company of people much, much older. In fact, they found other children rather silly and babyish. Faye and Blythe thought of themselves as adults trapped in children’s bodies. Years would pass before they recognized the irony; how vital it was never to lose touch with their child-like wonder and enthusiasm for life. It was one of the most important things.

Ten-Year-Old Faye

2009-11-09T18:02:00.012-05:00

Ten-year-old Faye sat on the long antique piano bench in the formal living room of Butterfield Road. During their last phone chat, Blythe hinted that she had sent Faye something ‘special’ for her June birthday. After a maddening and frustrating forty minutes of required piano practice, Faye swiveled around on the bench to watch for the postman. Her attention was diverted by the crew of young workmen, the huge yellow tractors and the veils of sand-colored dust drifting through the air from across the street. A new house was being built on the corner. The construction process fascinated her. She wanted to get a closer look but her mother wouldn’t allow it. Butterfield Road was a busy street; strictly off limits to Faye without her parent’s permission. Faye had also learned there seemed to be an unwritten social rule of maintaining distance between neighbors. Privacy was well-guarded. Neighbors didn’t just drop in on one another. Even getting the mail had an established routine and social etiquette.

Across the street from their house, the Monroe’s weathered mail box sat next to five others, in a perfect symmetrical row, shaded by the tall leafy trees overhead. Faye had a front row seat on her piano bench and could watch the distinctively noisy old post truck pull up and then leave so quickly she started to time each delivery with the metronome; that odd little device meant to teach musical tempo. Using an adjustable pendulum, the arrow-shaped arm would ‘click, click, click’, creating a perfectly timed beat. She was always devising eccentric little experiments; guessing if the postman would deliver the mail in ten clicks, or twelve. After several weeks, she stopped setting the metronome, as most all the deliveries took sixteen clicks and the experiment lost its allure.

Neighbors rarely, if ever, got their mail at the same time. This unspoken understanding precluded any possibility for leisurely chats or exchange of gossip. Sometimes, Faye would catch a glimpse of the mysterious, grouchy old man that lived directly across the street, next to the new house being built. He was a shadowy figure and quite intriguing as his large front yard was wild and overgrown; the house nearly invisible because it sat far back on the lot, almost completely hidden by the tangled web of ivy and vines twisting every which way.

Only a small square section of French windows could be seen sparkling in the morning sunlight. A ten-foot fence with wide heavy gates did not allow access to anyone without special permission, which was granted by pressing a black button on a square metal box installed on a post. Faye had even seen people talk into a vented opening as they pushed the black button. Once, when she had been allowed to pick up the mail, she looked closely at this device; wondering if he might be a secret agent or spy.

One of the highlights of Faye’s piano bench matinee was watching the grouchy old man pick up his mail. He would open one side of the huge creaking gate, just a crack, and peek out to see if anyone was about. When the coast was clear, he made a mad dash to the post box and then back behind the gate. It all seemed very suspicious to Faye. Years later, married to Michael, they happened upon a conversation about this grumpy old man. Michael told her, "When Dad began building the new fence between our yards, he nailed the wide boards to some of the existing posts of the grumpy old man’s fence. The grumpy old man came running out of his house yelling and hitting the newly installed fence boards with a sledge hammer. I remember Dad getting so mad I thought he might get into a fist fight with the guy. But it didn’t go to blows. Needless to say, our ‘neighborly’ relationship remained tense the entire time we lived in the house. I don’t believe my parents ever spoke to him. Once, an off-hand remark was made that he might have been in the Witness Protection Program. Whoever he was and whatever his story, the grumpy old man was full of pain and unhappiness and he hated kids! I’m guessing that might be one of the reasons we moved. We didn’t know any of our neighbors, including you! We had come from a neighborhood, Morningside, where we knew everyone. When we moved to Oak Avenue from Sleepy Hollow, we made friends quickly and knew all our neighbors again. Sorry to say, but The Hollow was not a neighbor-friendly place.” Michael paused and laughed, “Or, maybe, it was us! The Duncan family was a household filled with noisy confusion and activity. No doubt we created quite a commotion in the neighborhood.”

Faye Awoke With A Start

2009-11-09T17:25:00.007-05:00

Coconut Cluster

Artist: Rich Reid

Faye awoke with a start. The loud forceful ‘bang’ also alerted the dogs. Alarmed and confused, they responded with a stressful caterwauling of high-pitched barking. Old Duke, the loving white German shepherd, was still extremely nervous from all the chaos that was part and parcel of their move to Key West. Max, a calm mastiff, had settled in, but was never one to let an unidentified noise pass without a ferocious bark.

Falling asleep on the floor in an upright position with her back against the sofa and two lumpy cushions propped under her head had created an almost paralytic stiffness in body joints Faye didn’t even know existed. More slowly than she would have liked or would admit to, she awkwardly pushed herself up off the floor and went to investigate. In her harried struggle to regain control of her petrified body and jump to a standing position, she had forgotten about the glossy black and white photo of Michael’s fifth grade class. It slipped from her hand. The photo sailed across the room landing face up, in the dog’s water bowl. Quickly and carefully she grabbed one corner before it submerged; saving it, just in time, from drowning. With the precision of a surgeon, Faye set the photo on the pristine white kitchen countertop. The damage was minimal. No smearing or tears. In a few minutes, the photo would dry and the potentially disastrous mishap forgotten.

Weaving her way through the obstacle course of battered moving boxes, stacked one upon the other, Faye opened the front door of their charming little bungalow to see if she could determine what had caused the unusual explosion of noise. All was blissfully quiet. No one out and about. She scanned the tiny front garden and narrow walkway that led to the parking areas for the new development of miniature Conch cottages. Smack in the middle of the path was one very large green coconut gently rocking, almost imperceptibly, back and forth on its lopsided posterior. Looking above her head, Faye discovered the lush palm tree's veritable bumper-crop of coconuts. One, the size of a football, had fallen. Obviously, it had bombarded the metal roof of the front porch and then landed in the path. Picking up the offending missile, Faye felt rather smug about the brilliance of her deductive abilities. Now that her joints had unfrozen, she skipped up the few steps and back into the house. She placed her first Key West coconut, as a centerpiece, on the freshly scrubbed pine dining table.

A coconut! The thought thrilled her. It became a symbol; concrete evidence that she was no longer dreaming but had, in fact, actually survived the emotional brutality. The attempts to assassinate her professional reputation and her optimism were in the past. She had not succumbed to the crushing jealousy and hatred. Instead, she had willingly leaped into an unknown torrent that was carrying her away to a new life. She chose freedom. Even if it meant letting go of Michael and leaving her beloved Stinson Beach in California.

Walking over to where the dogs sat, side by side, Faye lovingly kissed each one on top of the head. Then, as though stating a proclamation, she spoke to Duke and Max, knowing they understood,

“WE ARE HERE TODAY! It’s a warm and balmy February morning in Key West. We are ‘HOME’ in our own funny little bungalow. WE MADE IT! We live on a beautiful tropical island thousands of miles away from the people who have hurt and betrayed us beyond wildest imaginings. That hurtful, dysfunctional history will NOT repeat itself. I feel an almost spiritual, devout thanksgiving for my FREEDOM!” Remembering the emotional power of writer Rebecca Wells ‘Ya Ya Sisterhood,’ Faye raised her arms above her head in triumph and yelled, “YA!YA!”

Enemy. Such An Ominous Word

2009-11-09T17:06:00.007-05:00

Enemy. Such an ominous word. But appropriate. No matter how long she lived, Faye would never fully understand why those she had deeply loved, appeared to be almost eager to find reason to hate her. They had been so easily duped and persuaded by bold-faced lies and manipulations. Like a diabolical artist, Damian meticulously labored for five years to sculpt an image of her as professionally ignorant, greedy, hurtful and a wholly hateful influence on the Duncan Family, personally and in business. Edith and Enid agreed, eager to jump on the bandwagon. They had known all along. Faye, that arrogant bitch, was a despicable threat to the family’s order and happiness.

Even Enid’s husband Rodney remained silent. The day he asked Faye and Michael to meet him for lunch at the Good Earth Café in Larkspur Landing, he swore them both to secrecy about the rendezvous. Rodney was miserable and felt trapped. The Duncan family web of deceit, competition, jealously and manipulation swirled around him.

When Rod walked into the restaurant, Michael and Faye could see something was terribly wrong. He usually looked impeccably groomed. But on that afternoon, his shirt was un-tucked. His jet black hair disheveled. His dark Hawaiian eyes were red-rimed and filled with desolation. Faye wondered if he had been crying.

Rod spoke from the heart, telling Faye and Michael how much he regretted the day he moved back from his childhood home in Hawaii to accept a position with the Duncan family firm. Enid had been adamantly unbending on the matter. Now, Rod felt coerced, trapped, used and disrespected. His five wonderful children were still so young, he couldn’t leave. He loved each one of them immeasurably.

Michael and Faye said almost nothing. Rod just needed someone to listen,

“Michael, I know you are a Duncan. I’m sorry if I offend you. I know Enid is your sister.”

“Rod, it’s OK. I’m sorry you are so unhappy. As you’re well aware, we’re not the most popular people with my sister.”

Before picking up his cup of coffee, Michael reached across the table and gave Rod a supportive pat on the forearm. Rod looked at Michael with such a deep sadness, “If you knew what Edith, Enid, Stan and Norman said about the two of you. About your brother, Dan. And your sister, Molly. Well, let’s just say, it’s none too flattering. Damian stirs the pot at every opportunity. He particularly targets your mother with his seductive charm. She giggles like a school girl around him when he calls or drops by the office. I see right through it. Damian is superficial, glib and manipulative. He has learned to play the perfect victim for your parent’s benefit, sharing how frustrated and upset he is about working with Dan. How he struggles financially, because of it. Then, he talks about the joint venture work. How you both know nothing. Do nothing. All you want is money. Always, asking him for money. I shouldn’t be telling you this. But they all do it. They viciously dissect one another, behind each other’s backs. Constantly! I’ve become a character in a malicious soap opera.”

Rod took a long, restorative sip of icy beer. Faye noticed his hand was trembling. Rod bowed his head in despair, “Speaking of victims, or should I say first-class sissies. You’re looking at one. I feel completely victimized. Not by Damian, but by Enid and your parents. They convinced me I had a bright and financially rewarding future with G.W. Duncan Painting. I gave up my career opportunities in Maui based on their promises and, of course, to make Enid happy.”

Rod’s voice revealed a spark of resentment, “Now, there’s a challenge! Nothing is ever good enough for her. Nothing. Enid always wants more. More money, more status, more control. I’m so tired of trying to make her happy. She and your mother are like Siamese twins, planning their lives. They see me as a necessary evil, to be endured. I’m a pawn in Enid’s ‘master plan.’ A sperm donor. I’m a prop on the stage of her life. Not OUR life. HER life.”

Rod’s face was a portrait of grief, anger and guilt, “Michael, did you know your dad and brothers didn’t say one word to me when they were planning their exit from G. W. Duncan? Not a god damn word! My own father-in-law talks me into leaving Hawaii to come work with him. Then, he leaves the company! Your dad had the arrogance to tell me I would be happy and have a better future with G. W. Duncan, rather than joining him, Norman and Stan. This is after he tells me how much he hates the business partners at G. W. Duncan. HATES THEM! Does he think I’m that stupid? Obviously, he does.

“Then, when Enid convinced Edith I needed to be involved with the new family company – Barry Duncan and Sons, I get a phone call from your brother Stan. We meet. He offers me a job but makes it very clear. VERY CLEAR. I will only be an employee of the company. I will never be given the opportunity to become a partner. His hubris, his arrogance made me sick. This is a guy who, like Damian, rides on others shirt-tails to success, yet, they think their wealth is self-made. What a joke!

You want to know the most revolting part of this whole damn drama? I’ve gone along. With all of it! I’m manipulated and controlled by Enid, your parents, your brothers. It’s as though I’ve left my balls in a jar by the door every time I go home or into the office. I tell myself I do it for my kids. And, I do. To leave now would impact them for the rest of their lives. So, I’ll wait until they’ve grown up. Maybe things will get better. I’m just not sure how much longer I can take it. Life can really suck! I’m not sure of anything, anymore.”

It’s funny how forgotten memories appear at the most unexpected moments. Faye hadn’t thought about that lunch with Rod in years. Years. Time, the baffling system used to distinguish events, continued to perplex and mystify her. A sudden, unexpected, realization hit her like a lightening bolt. It has taken me more than twenty years to peel away, layer by layer, the filters that coloured and protected my perceptions about being a beloved member of Michael’s family. Like Rod, I was a necessary evil. It was all a sham. All of it! A twenty year deception exacts an awesome personal price.

Resistance Is Futile

2009-11-09T15:49:00.008-05:00

Six members of the Duncan Clan: Edith, Barry, Norman, Enid, Stanley and Damian. Two parents and four of their children had organized themselves into an inter-connected collective with a hive mind, consumed by jealousy, competition, resentment and excessive entitlement. They had become humanoid drones living in a dysfunctional familial hive.

When Faye first saw a Star Trek episode featuring, ‘The Borg,’ she knew this to be the perfect metaphor for Michael’s family. The Borg was a terrifying pseudo-race of half human, half computer entities, created from conquered species. Against their will, they were assimilated into a collective mind to be ruled by a Queen. The Borg rarely spoke, but when they did, they sent a collective audio message, as dictated by the Queen: "Assimilation Inevitable. Resistance is Futile." With bemused resignation, Faye realized the Borg imperative permeated the Duncan family.

During their childhoods, they had learned one single-minded purpose; to acquiesce to their parents’ demands in the hopes of feeling approval and love. Even as adults, with their own lives and families; the Duncan children were expected to behave as a collective, with unquestioned allegiance, in all things, to Edith and her consort Barry. No matter how strongly they might disagree with Edith and Barry, when the final tally was taken, to submit with passive acceptance was the path of least resistance.

They were assimilated into the power of the Queen. Her name was Edith and she ruled with manipulative control and calculated precision. Often, Edith masqueraded as a helpless, confused and tearful victim seeking the pity and understanding of others for her tragic plight. This was a particularly powerful tool when it came to her marriage. Barry was Edith’s ‘knight in shining armor;’ rescuing her from danger and all the evil and vengeful enemies she deemed a threat.

Barry fiercely protected Edith’s royal protocol with weapons of anger and physical intimidation. His children learned to fear him. They had been well-trained in the co-dependent practice of burying truth, reality and legitimate questions in the family grave marked RIP - Restricted, Illicit, Prohibited.

The Duncan children knew that to disagree with Queen Edith’s edicts resulted in dismissal, rejection and banishment from the Duncan Kingdom. As they grew into adults, the stirrings of discord and rebellion rippled through the family for many years. Most of these minor uprisings were dismissed or summarily squashed.

An ironic consequence of this state of affairs was that Michael’s brother, Damian, and his sister, Enid, began to model themselves after their mother, Edith. Eventually, they successfully captured their parents in a well-crafted net of deceit, manipulation and control; getting exactly what they wanted, when they wanted it.

During an argument, Michael passionately told his sister, Enid, he believed mutual respect between a parent and child was essential to the success of the relationship. Enid was annoyed. Her reply stopped Michael in his tracks, “Mom and Dad are old, stupid and feeble. Tell them what they want to hear. It’s easier that way, and you’ll get what you want.”

Edith and Barry had built a foundation of dysfunctional clay which, year by year, eroded and led to the family’s explosive disintegration. They were morbidly blind to this devastatingly sad fact. Barry and Edith had become the targeted prey in their own game of control and manipulation.

In Less Than Five Years

2009-11-09T15:21:00.009-05:00

Broken Heart

Artist: Stephanie Marrott

In less than five years, the Duncan Clan lost thirteen members. Molly, her husband Jack, their four children. Michael and Faye. Daniel, his wife Cameron and their three children. All had been deemed guilty of treason, either directly or by association. The unspoken, unanimous verdict of the condemned, They are to be punished until they acquiesce or we will turn our backs on them as dishonoured cast-offs.

Still feeling the faint stirrings of compassion, Faye believed Barry suffered deeply from the loss. He was perplexed and angry by what had happened. Edith, on the other hand, was a person Faye came to view as a consummate game-player. Winning and control were more important to her than love and friendship. Time and again, Edith’s carefully contrived actions portrayed this, even when it came to the crumbling relationships with three children, three ‘in-laws’ and seven grandchildren. Edith and Barry’s actions were so loud, their words lost any meaning.

Faye had to come to terms with a cold reality: Edith had never really loved her at all. Edith tolerated her as a daughter-in-law, nothing more. Over the years, Edith’s green-eyed jealousy had become uncomfortably obvious at times. Faye never took it very seriously because, sadly, Edith was blazingly jealous of everyone, not just Faye. But when Michael’s parents dismissed him as a ‘crazy’ buffoon and her as a contemptible villain and unscrupulous professional, Faye had enough. They had irrevocably crossed the line. Faye decided to divorce. Not Michael, but his parents. She would never again acquiesce or tolerate their cruelty, personally or as a spectator. The knowledge that Barry had once loved her disappeared into the gaping wound of the broken heart.

If still alive during these years of personal, familial and professional hell, Faye’s wise and astute grandmother, Mama Ted, would have quoted her long dead father-in-law, the famous Captain C.M. Tyler. Captain Tyler, one of the pioneer founders of Colorado, was fond of saying, in his best Teddy Roosevelt impersonation, “You’ve been dragooned, my dear. It happens to the best of us.”

Faye felt like the proverbial virgin in a whore house. All those years invested. She had been a willing Pollyanna who believed in the magic image of a charismatic and loving California clan named Duncan and the well-crafted fantasy of their Camelot. Well, not any more.

The sweet Maui onion of illusion had been peeled and its pungent bitterness exposed. Michael and Faye, even at perilous odds with one another, shared an inscrutable unity; a fierce, burning focus and tenacity to survive and break free from the massively dysfunctional world they had come to call ‘The Borg.’

Determined to shake off these gloomy thoughts, Faye began to sift through the other stacks of photos and keepsakes stored in the enormous cardboard box, looking for an image that would make her smile. Over the years, she and Michael had shared so many spectacular moments. For her, there was a mystic quality to the process of photography; capturing time through a lens. Frozen crystalline mirrors of reality in any given moment. Images that wait patiently, timelessly, for their power and message to be rediscovered and reinterpreted.

Much like insights, the impact of a long-forgotten photograph profoundly affected her, when and where she least expected it. Like finding a misplaced but necessary piece to a puzzle. A discovery. A revelation. Belonging to the past. Belonging to the present. A bridge that connects the events of destiny. Memories of yesterday, coloring perceptions of today which influence dreams for tomorrow. All woven together, they create the collage of life.

There it was. The photo that made Faye smile. She remembered the exact moment Michael had bought the small matted print in the gift shop. He had wanted to buy her something to remember the evening. The impact of seeing the colossal modern sculpture ‘Eclipse’ that dominated the hotel lobby came rushing back. She had not forgotten. It had been the first Friday in May 1973 at the Hyatt Regency in San Francisco. Their first date.

Excerpt From A Work In Progress

2008-08-27T13:49:00.012-05:00

Hyatt Regency Hotel Lobby

Number 5 Embarcadero

San Francisco

One in our Studio is passionately and enthusiastically 'riding the wild and raging whitewater river' of writing a novel. This part of the story is about the main characters, Michael and Faye, and their first 'blind date' in April 1973. It takes place in the Lobby of the Hyatt Regency in San Francisco. This morning we discovered the above photo on All Posters, a fabulous source for images! So...of course, we decided to have a little fun and share an excerpt of Royce's work. SHhhhh. Don't tell.

The extensive ground floor entry of the iconic new hotel was coldly industrial with cool beige marble, stark walls, great slices of triangular glass and massive steel escalators placed in perfect geometric balance. Far down the corridor were immense double doors that had been wedged open with two enormous modern floral bouquets on tall shiny black pedestals. Faye couldn’t help but gawk at the amazing modernistic spectacle of the ballroom. Large spherical chandeliers with hundreds of narrow crystal arms shooting out in all directions reminded Faye of something you would expect to see in a planetarium. Her first impression of the supposedly luxurious Hyatt Regency Number 5 Embarcadero was one of quiet disappointment. But within the next few minutes she would realize the brilliance of this carefully calculated ruse. It served as the perfect foil for what was to come.

Michael wanted her first impression of the Main Lobby to be nothing less than overwhelming, dramatic and unforgettable. Faye stepped onto the wide vibrating rubberized stair that appeared before her. Michael followed one step below. She could feel Michael looking at her. As they slowly and rhythmically moved upwards, he gently tapped her on the shoulder,

“Step off at the next floor. Stop and close your eyes. Don’t peek! Don’t open your eyes until I tell you. No cheating! Promise me. Scout’s Honor!”

“Okay, Scout’s Honor!”

“Good!”

Michael had a nice voice. Resonant. Pleasant. Full of energy. Faye was startled by how quickly he spoke. During the ride into San Francisco, she had to pay close attention and concentrate in order to understand the rapid-fire speed of his speech. It wasn’t that he was nervous. Michael just seemed to have so much to say that he couldn’t get it out fast enough. Faye found this flattering. Nothing worse than awkward or uncomfortable silence between two people.

Faye stepped off the final escalator, took a few steps away from the main platform and waited for Michael. He was right behind her and instructed, “Now, close your eyes. Don’t open them until I tell you.” Devilishly he added, “You can trust me.” She rolled her eyes dramatically before closing them. Michael briskly, in a business-like manner, took her left hand in his, “OK. Let’s go. No peeking!”

Both of their hands were quite warm. Faye realized that she felt a great sense of anticipation and deep comfort. His touch felt strong and safe. For some reason Faye began counting the steps they were taking - 25, 26, 27.

Michael stopped abruptly. A vivid symphony of sound played all around them. People talking. Laughter. Glasses clinking. Big band music fusing with a jazz tune. The ‘ding-ding-ding’ of what sounded to be multiple elevator bells ringing on several floors at the same time. Foreign languages. The surprised gasps of delight. Michael’s voice was full of the promise for a glorious surprise, “Are you ready? Open your eyes.”

Faye was struck dumb, absolutely speechless. Her eyes were seeing but her brain wasn’t able to process it all simultaneously. The images magnificent. She realized they were standing in a vast open atrium, reaching well above one hundred feet tall. Faye finally found her voice, “I’ve never seen anything like this! It’s amazing! Tell me all you know.”

“Well, the architect was John Portman. My Dad and Grandfather’s company did all of the painting, wall covering and specialty finishes in the entire building. I worked here myself. It’s twenty stories tall and there are eight hundred rooms. The hallways to each room face the atrium. See the hanging plants cascading down from floor to floor? These serve as the balcony barriers. You can stand outside the door to your room and look over the plants, down into the lobby. In order to paint the ceilings above the atrium, we had to construct the scaffolding from balcony to balcony. We were working at least seventeen stories above the lobby floor. Like tight-rope walkers in the circus, except we had planks instead of wire.”

In full tour guide mode Michael continued, “That gargantuan metal sculpture over there is called Eclipse. I don’t know why. The sculptor was Charles O. Perry. The giant geodesic sphere soars to forty feet tall. Perry constructed it of curved metal tubing joined together in pentagons and supported by three massive steel legs. I was told there are over 1400 pieces! The sphere actually sits on an indoor waterway and reflective pool. Let’s walk over for a closer look.”

Faye's creative sensibilities were turning delighted somersaults in her heart, “Wow! I’ve never seen anything like this before. Unbelievable! Look at those glass elevators in the shape of capsules. What a view of the lobby as you travel to the top floor! Absolute vertigo! This is better than Disneyland!”

Travel Note

If you are ever in San Francisco, don't miss a frosty beverage at the Equinox; the revolving bar atop the Hyatt Regency has one of the best views of the City and the Bay.

TAPESTRY OF UNDERSTANDING

2008-08-25T20:50:00.009-05:00

Sun Glare Above Clouds Photographer: Bruce Clarke

TAPESTRY OF UNDERSTANDING©2008

And thus they swam together, side by side,
The broken nautilus and smooth stone dancing in the unseen tide
While the soft sugar sand swirled between their toes,
And in the magical places beyond the wild mysteries of the deep
Awestruck by unexpected lightening, yet unafraid
As the resonant tenor of thunder far upon the horizon
Explains all that simply is to be

In swaying columns,
The transparent emerald seaweed swathed their ancient bodies
They stopped struggling and looked into each other’s loving eyes,
Yielding to the tanzanite blue velvet garment of the sea

Then turning onto their backs
Directed by one dazzling star whose floating glow
Cast a miracle of intense gold-white light,
Penetrating through five thousand years of timeless time long forgotten
They gazed upon the beckoning portal above,
A vast, violet vacuum of vanquished virtue
Whence the eyelash moon winked in mischievous daring;
They tasted the bittersweet salt on their moist dry lips
And felt each other’s hands bump together gently on the wave’s surface
Into one another’s keeping for all eternity – and knowing this,
Their fingers sought to weave one unto the other,
Cradling their courageous tapestry of understanding
A joyous reckoning
From this life to the next, they gently drift
Their souls draw near, and travel to the Other Side

Royce Addington

EYE OF THE TIGER

2008-08-09T18:28:00.004-05:00

CLICK HERE FOR THE FINISH STRONG MOVIE BY DAN GREEN
AMAZING STORIES OF COURAGE AND INSPIRATION.

FAILURE IS THE KEY

2008-07-27T15:49:00.003-05:00

DESIRE AND THE IMPORTANCE OF FAILING
RUMI

…You know how it is
Sometimes we plan a trip to one place,
But something takes us to another

When a horse is being broken,
The trainer pulls it in many different directions,
So the horse will come to know
What it is to be ridden

The most beautiful and alert horse
Is one
Completely attuned to the rider

The Universe fixes a passionate desire in you,
And then disappoints you
The Universe does this a hundred times!

The Universe breaks the wings of one intention
And gives you another
Cuts the rope of contriving,
So you’ll remember your dependence

But sometimes, your plans work out!
You feel fulfilled and in control

That’s because
If you were always failing you might give up
But remember,

It is by FAILURES that

Lovers stay aware of how they’re loved

FAILURE IS THE KEY
To the kingdom within…

SULTRY SUMMER SUNDAY

2008-07-26T09:08:00.004-05:00

Photo: Tommy Hilfiger Home

©

Sultry Summer Sunday
In early July
The wild sea sleeps
Brazilian hummingbirds
Kiss the sky

A bed of silver driftwood on the beach
Softly slumber
Allow your dreams to teach

The live oak listens
Veils of Spanish moss glisten
The hammock rocks
No shoes
No socks

Far across the abandoned pier
An old man wizened
Dances joyfully with no one but himself
How sublime!

Waltz upon the drowsy waves
The gypsy foretold
Her ancient, mysterious wisdom
Waits patiently to unfold

Tiny baby geckos skitter across bare brown toes
The orchid bloomed last night
Sensual, Beautiful, Mystical Prose

-Royce-

THE GUEST HOUSE

2008-07-20T20:49:00.006-05:00

Michelangelo

The Creation 1510

This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival

A joy
A depression
A meanness
Some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows
Who violently sweep your house
Empty of its furniture
Still…
Treat each guest honorably
He may be clearing your out
For some new delight

The dark thought
The shame
The malice
Meet them at the door laughing
And invite them in

Be grateful for whoever comes
Because each has been sent
As a guide from beyond

RUMI

A STORY OF LOVE AND HUMANITY

2008-07-02T13:58:00.006-05:00

Every so often an E-mail comes through our Studio that we feel compelled to share. If you have already been the lucky recipient of this little story of wonder and inspiration, you will recognize it. For the rest of us, it serves as a deeply heart-felt reminder that true goodness does exist in our world. A big THANK YOU to ‘Y’ for sending our way. Children remain the wisest beings among us. We were all one once.

At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves learning-disabled children, the father of one of the students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he offered a question:

"When not interfered with by outside influences, everything nature does is done with perfection. Yet my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do. Where is the natural order of things in my son?"

The audience was stilled by the query.

The father continued. "I believe that when a child like Shay, physically and mentally handicapped comes into the world, an opportunity to realize true human nature presents itself, and it comes in the way other people treat that child." Then he told the following story:

Shay and his father had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball. Shay asked, "Do you think they'll let me play?" Shay's father knew that most of the boys would not want someone like Shay on their team, but the father also understood that if his son were allowed to play, it would give him a much-needed sense of belonging and some confidence to be accepted by others in spite of his handicaps. Shay's father approached one of the boys on the field and asked (not expecting much) if Shay could play.

The boy looked around for guidance and said, "We're losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him in to bat in the ninth inning.”

Shay struggled over to the team's bench and, with a broad smile, put on a team shirt. His Father watched with a small tear in his eye and warmth in his heart. The boys saw the father's joy at his son being accepted. In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the right field. Even though no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be in the game and on the field, grinning from ear to ear as his father waved to him from the stands.

In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay's team scored again. Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base and Shay was scheduled to be next at bat. At this juncture, do they let Shay bat and give away their chance to win the game? Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible because Shay didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball.

However, as Shay stepped up to the plate, the pitcher, recognizing that the other team was putting winning aside for this moment in Shay's life, moved in a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least make contact. The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly towards Shay. As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher. The game would now be over. The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could have easily thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shay would have been out and that would have been the end of the game.Instead, the pitcher threw the ball right over the first baseman's head, out of reach of all team mates.

Everyone from the stands and both teams started yelling, "Shay, run to first! Run to first!" Never in his life had Shay ever run that far, but he made it to first base. He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled. Everyone yelled, "Run to second, run to second!"

Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second, gleaming and struggling to make it to the base. By the time Shay rounded towards second base, the right fielder had the ball ... the smallest guy on their team who now had his first chance to be the hero for his team. He could have thrown the ball to the second-baseman for the tag, but he understood the pitcher's intentions so he, too, intentionally threw the ball high and far over the third-baseman's head. Shay ran toward third base deliriously as the runners ahead of him circled the bases toward home. All were screaming, "Shay, Shay, Shay, all the Way Shay"

Shay reached third base because the opposing shortstop ran to help him by turning him in the direction of third base, and shouted, 'Run to third! Shay, run to third!' As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams, and the spectators, were on their feet screaming, "Shay, run home! Run home!" Shay ran to home, stepped on the plate, and was cheered as the hero who hit the grand slam and won the game for his team.

"That day", said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, "the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world".

Shay didn't make it to another summer. He died that winter, having never forgotten being the hero and making his father so happy, and coming home and seeing his Mother tearfully embrace her little hero of the day!

SIDEBAR:
Mystical Quill Productions and MUSEologies is committed to the belief that each one of us makes a significant difference to the well-being of our planet. We have thousands of opportunities in our lifetime to help realize the 'natural order of things’. May we all remember this inspiring story and fill some part of every day with true love and humanity.

RELEASE YOUR CAGED MAGICK

2008-06-26T16:19:00.005-05:00

Watchtower

By: Joseph Corsentino

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.

Richard Lovelace 1618 - 1657

To An English Friend in Africa

2008-06-22T10:46:00.005-05:00

Photo of BEN OKRI

To an English Friend in Africa
Written By: BEN OKRI (March 1991)

Be grateful for freedom

To see other dreams.

Bless your loneliness as much as you drank

Of your former companionships.

All that you are experiencing now

Will become moods of future joys

So bless it all.

Do not think your ways superior

To another's

Do not venture to judge

But see things with fresh and open eyes

Do not condemn

But praise what you can

And when you can't be silent.

Time is now a gift for you

A gift of freedom

To think and remember and understand

The ever perplexing past

And to re-create yourself anew

In order to transform time.

Live while you are alive.

Learn the ways of silence and wisdom

Learn to act, learn a new speech

Learn to be what you are in the seed of your spirit

Learn to free yourself from all things that have moulded you

And which limit your secret and undiscovered road.

Remember that all things which happen

To you are raw materials

Endlessly fertile

Endlessly yielding of thoughts that could change

Your life and go on doing for ever.

Never forget to pray and be thankful

For all the things good or bad on the rich road;

For everything is changeable

So long as you live while you are alive.

Fear not, but be full of light and love;

Fear not but be alert and receptive;

Fear not but act decisively when you should;

Fear not, but know when to stop;

Fear not for you are loved by me;

Fear not, for death is not the real terror,

But life -magically - is.

Be joyful in your silence

Be strong in your patience

Do not try to wrestle with the universe

But be sometimes like water or air

Sometimes like fire

Live slowly, think slowly, for time is a mystery.

Never forget that love

Requires that you be

The greatest person you are capable of being,

Self-generating and strong and gentle-

Your own hero and star.

Love demands the best in us

To always and in time overcome the worst

And lowest in our souls.

Love the world wisely.

It is love alone that is the greatest weapon

And the deepest and hardest secret.

So fear not, my friend.

The darkness is gentler than you think.

Be grateful for the manifold

Dreams of creation

And the many ways of unnumbered peoples.

Be grateful for life as you live it.

And may a wonderful light

Always guide you on the unfolding road.

MAY THE MOON...

2008-05-19T20:53:00.004-05:00

MOONRISE by Royce©
St. Augustine Beach

MAY THE SUN
BRING YOU NEW ENERGY BY DAY

MAY THE MOON
SOFTLY RESTORE YOU BY NIGHT

MAY THE RAIN
WASH AWAY YOUR WORRIES

MAY THE BREEZE
BLOW NEW STRENGTH INTO YOUR BEING

MAY YOU WALK
GENTLY THROUGH THE WORLD
AND KNOW ITS BEAUTY
ALL THE DAYS OF YOUR LIFE

-apache blessing

Happy Mother's Day...Muses My Muses

2008-05-10T20:11:00.007-05:00

Top Photo: FAYE TYLER (1910-1990) Jan Stewart’s Mother
Bottom Photo: JAN STEWART (1934-2004) My Mother

Warm Sands Of Time©

Stretched out in the still warm sand
Under a full moon
Next to the crackling fire
Just laying there
Amazed at the fluid flames of molten gold
Dancing with the sparkling silver moon spirits
Across the velvet darkness
Skipping along the crests of a restless sea
Recognizing the miracle of Nature’s fusion
The dazzling, dizzying movement of light

Moon and Fire
Thinking about two women
Unlike any others
The smell of Estee perfume, Belgium chocolate and oil paints
Drift through my memory
Flickering flames as strokes of their talented creations
Looking into the mesmerizing night
Feeling the subtle vibration
The undulating movement
Of incoming waves
The water foams onto the soft cashmere beach

How I cherish the love

Their beautiful
Wise
Mischievous faces
No longer alive in this world
Whispering their names

Gratitude spills from my heart
A joyous remembering
I thank the Universe for their presence in my life
As our Cherokee ancestors gently nod their approval
They speak to me of love and pain
All of them
Moon Beam Souls
Warming themselves
In the hypnotic bath
Of Freedom’s Firelight

-Royce-

WANDERing & WONDERing

2008-05-05T20:05:00.004-05:00

St. Augustine Beach
New Year’s Day 2008

PEOPLE TRAVEL TO WONDER AT
THE HEIGHT OF THE MOUNTAINS,
AT THE HUGE WAVES OF THE SEA,
AT THE LONG COURSE OF THE RIVERS,
AT THE VAST COMPASS OF THE OCEAN,
AT THE CIRCULAR MOTION OF THE STARS,
AND YET…
THEY PASS BY THEMSELVES WITHOUT WONDERING.

-St. Augustine-

FULL MOON RISING

2008-04-30T14:02:00.012-05:00

Full Moon Rising
November 2007
St. Augustine Beach, Florida
Photo by Royce Addington©

SOMETIMES I GO ABOUT PITYING MYSELF
AND ALL THE WHILE
I AM BEING CARRIED ACROSS THE SKY
BY BEAUTIFUL CLOUDS

--Ojibway Indian Poem--

FOR THE FIRST TIME

2007-09-10T09:19:00.000-05:00

Royce's Dad taking photos in the High Sierras of California 1970
Photo by Royce Addington

FOR THE FIRST TIME

NEVER STOP REACQUAINTING YOURSELF WITH THE WORLD
LIE DOWN IN THE SOFT MEADOW GRASSES
TURN YOUR FACE TOWARD THE WARMTH OF THE SUN
DANCE ACROSS THE VAST SEA OF WILDFLOWERS
DRINK IN EVERY HINT OF COLOUR
BREATH DEEPLY OF THE SWEET MOUNTAIN AIR
HEAR THE WHISPER OF THE DISTANT CANYON WIND
HAVE WE DONE IT ALL BEFORE?
NO MATTER.
BEING WITH NATURE MAKES US FEEL AS THOUGH WE ARE
SEEING
FEELING
AND EXPERIENCING LIFE
FOR THE FIRST TIME...
--Royce Addington--

INTO DEEPER WATERS

2007-08-31T20:41:00.000-05:00

Waterfall III by Veselov

"I used to sit on the banks with a raft and watch the water roll lazily by. One day I pushed my raft into the shallows of the water and found the water moved swifter than I thought. My raft was actually a boat. Then, after some time, I rowed my little boat into deeper water. There were great storms, mighty winds, tremendous waves, and sometimes I felt so alone. But I have noticed my little rowboat is now a mighty ship manned by my friends and loved ones; and beautiful calm seas, warm sunny days, and nights filled with comfortable dreams always double after a storm. Now, I could never go back and sit on the bank. In fact, I search for deeper water. Such is life when lived."

--B. D. Gulledge--

What's Behind Your Door of Creativity?

2007-08-26T16:58:00.000-05:00

Photo by Eric Kamp

We, in this studio, have become big believers in the power of guided imageries. We use them to jump start a stalled project, access new ideas, solve problems or to discover alternate solutions as well as using the guided imagery as a meditative moment away from the current stress de jour. For those who may not be familiar with this term; it is a process via a human voice, music or a combo of the two which guides you into the deeper levels of your imagination where a river of creative thinking flows unfettered by our every day notions and conditioning. A guided imagery can last anywhere from three minutes to a half hour or longer. We like the 20 minute version.

To give you an example of what can ‘appear’ after a guided visualization; one of our braver souls (thank you Royce) has reluctantly agreed to share what showed up on the page after participating in a powerful teleconference guided visualization created by Jill Badonsky of The Muse is In.

At the end of this guided imagery, each participant was asked to complete, in writing, the sentence,

“Behind the door of my Creativity…”

Royce wrote,

Behind the door of my Creativity…. is a wondrous ancient stone vestibule/entry with a double sweeping staircase which leads to an upper balcony. Dramatic and grand. Burning torches bathe the room in flickering shades of gold and amber. Standing on the steps and all along the balcony railing above are spirit entities (don’t know what else to call them) and people who are there to guide me on my path; even though I’m not sure where this path leads.

A symbol floats into my mind. I see gratitude as a tightly wound circular line, in a nautilus shell shape, wrapped in a golden-white glowing ball of light. Like a ball of string unraveling, it gently floats and extends… this cord of glowing light floats in space. It gently encircles me at the waist and forms a loose knot…then keeps extending on and on as it moves towards the left side of the stairway. Slowly the cord moves up the stairs. The entities gently reach out and hold on to the cord. Each time they touch it, I feel a jolt of spiritual joy beyond description.

Who is the first person all dressed in white to touch the cord? It’s my beloved Faye (my grandmother, mentor, muse) who is smiling that mischievous grinning smile of hers.

Then, I don’t know who stands behind her, but she (Faye) knows who it is…from our mutual Indian heritage…a healer. The chord of light vibrates with energy. I see the orange robes of Buddhist monks in jovial conversation with Native American healers and shamans. I see light, just soft, glowing gentle persuasive light which guides me up the stairs one step at a time. As I go, I smile at each of the entities because they make me feel so safe. So welcome. They nod in return.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I see a series of doors lining the far wall of the balcony. Each door beckons me to open it and I have to decide which one to open first. I’m standing on my balcony…so peaceful, so full of serenity…a sense of “knowing” but still undecided as to which door to open first?

Breath. Just Breath. Let go of needing an outcome. Breath and experience this Moment. The answer will reveal itself.

Each person’s response to a guided visualization is unique. Some people feel quite emotional. Others say they feel or see nothing at all. Whatever the outcome, it is all OK. There is no ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ way to experience a guided imagery. It’s simply an interesting and creative way to travel deeper into that part of ourselves we seem to isolate too often.

Give it a try. Don’t ‘over-noodle’ the process. Have some fun!
If you feel like sharing any of your experiences; we would love to hear about them either here as a ‘comment’ or drop us an e-mail at mysticalquill@aim.com.

SUMMER'S LEGACY...

2007-08-18T17:44:00.000-05:00

Photo by John Ballouz
Close-up of a Royal Poinciana Flowering Tree
Key Largo, Florida
Consistently voted among the top 5 most beautiful flowering trees in the world
Native to Madagascar

Summer's Legacy...

The bloom of a Royal Poinciana
Dolphin in the aqua sea
Bathe in golden light
--Royce Addington--

NEPTUNE'S HORSES

2007-08-17T16:22:00.001-05:00

Neptune’s Horses by Walter Crane
Illustration for “The Greek Mythological Legend”
Published in London, 1910

…Along the jagged coastline were outcroppings of craggy old reefs. Exposed and dangerous. The bottle-green water of the sea sparkled in the brilliant sunlight as it tumbled and roared; giving the appearance of great white stallions lifting their mighty heads while galloping forward toward their destiny.

--Royce Addington—
Excerpt from a story-in-progress Pieces of Eight

GONE FISH'IN

2007-08-06T18:48:00.000-05:00

The longer I live,

the more my mind dwells upon the beauty and wonder of the world…

I have loved the feel of the grass under my feet,

and the sound of the running streams by my side.

The hum of the wind in the treetops has always been good music to me,

and the face of the fields has often comforted me more than the faces of men.
I am in love with this world...

I have tilled its soil,

I have gathered its harvest,

I have waited upon its seasons,

and always have I reaped what I have sown.
I have climbed its mountains,

roamed its forests,

sailed its waters,

crossed its deserts,

felt the sting of its frosts,

the oppression of its heats,

the drench of its rains,

the fury of its winds,

and always have beauty and joy waited upon my goings and comings.

--John Burroughs--

For 'The Pheasant'

2007-07-31T19:53:00.000-05:00

A green iguana taps the restaurant window
Summer sun hidden
Exposes itself in its own reflection

--Royce--

GOT EGGS!?!

2007-07-29T19:24:00.000-05:00

Art by Bill Binger

We are the egg.
The egg is the container of our influence.
Cracking it…
Opens us up to the questions.
It exposes
Our passions, creativity and imagination.
Living a life focused on authentic expression
Is the elixir for metamorphosis.
Butterfly or petrified glob?
The choice is ours.
--Royce Addington--

A GOOD DAY

2007-07-27T08:15:00.000-05:00

Lance Armstrong by Artist Malcolm Farley
Tour de France Champion (7 times)
Cancer Survivor (2 times)

I TAKE NOTHING FOR GRANTED.
I NOW HAVE ONLY
GOOD DAYS
OR
GREAT DAYS!

--Lance Armstrong--

IN THE JULY SUNSHINE

2007-07-24T09:26:00.000-05:00

Photo by Nicole Duplaix

In the July sunshine
The glimpse of an iridescent dragonfly wing
Palm fans waving in the breeze
Deep within the blooming hibiscus
A sleeping frog jumps from my unexpected touch
To the water’s edge we go
For a refreshing dip in the shaded mangrove pond
The giant lily pad gently rocks
In the July Sunshine
--Royce Addington--

CEHCK IT OUT!

2007-07-19T11:22:00.000-05:00

Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn’t mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny ipomretnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a total mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh?

NOW…

Try typing (at your normal typing speed) the above paragraph exactly as it is written. How many of the wrods did you sepll correctly!?!

THE OPTIMIST'S CREED

2007-07-12T07:12:00.000-05:00

www.thesecret.tv/optimists-creed
By Christian D. Larson
Modified by The Secret 2007

I promise myself…

To be so strong that nothing can disturb my peace of mind.

To talk health, happiness and prosperity to every person I meet.

To make all my friends feel that there is something worthwhile in them.

To look at the sunny side of everything and make my optimism come true.

To think only of the best, to work only for the best and to expect only the best.

To be just as enthusiastic about the success of others as I am about my own.

To forget the mistakes of the past and press on to the greater achievements of the future.

To wear a cheerful expression at all times and give a smile to every living creature I meet.

To give so much time to improving myself that I have no time to criticize others.

To be too large for worry, too noble for anger, too strong for fear and too happy to permit the presence of trouble.

To think well of myself and to proclaim this fact to the world, not in loud words, but in great deeds.

To live in the faith that the whole world is on my side, so long as I am true to the best that is in me.

UNDER A KEY WEST MOON

2007-07-09T10:41:00.000-05:00

Photograph by Brianna Stello

One of the little techniques I’ve learned to get the creative energies moving into my body, heart and brain is to read a passage, quote or poem by someone I love and admire. Then I daydream and play; morphing it with my words to reflect ideas floating by at any given moment. Here is today’s example, borrowing the structure from Walt Whitman:

As for me
I am a student
Learning to 'see' nothing else but miracles.

Whether I walk the streets of San Francisco,
Or climb out onto the tiny metal roof from my bathroom window and look through the mangroves toward the sky,
Or skip with naked feet along the warm sand just at the edge of an undiscovered beach,
Or sleep under the ancient trees in Glacier Park,
Or talk and drink coffee all morning with someone I love,
Or sleep in bed each night with someone I love, two dogs and two cats,
Or watch butterflies busy around the delicate orchid blooming this sultry afternoon,
Or the magnificent Maxfield Parrish palette of sunset,
Or a thousand stars dancing in a velvet night,
Or the hypnotic full moon in June…
Could any greater mysteries or miracles await?

TRUTH...

2007-07-07T13:43:00.000-05:00

Think not to settle down forever in any truth. Make use of it as a tent in which to pass a summer’s night but build no house of it, or it will be your tomb. When you first have an inkling of its insufficiency and begin to see a dim counter-truth looming up beyond, then weep not, but give thanks. It is time to ‘take-up your bed and walk’.

--A.J. Balfour--

A few days ago, I discovered this quote by A.J. Balfour.
To be honest, I really didn’t understand its profound depths the first time I read the passage. So, I read it again…and again…and again and I’m still not sure I ‘get it’ entirely. But these words have prompted me to really think about our perceptions of reality, historical perspective and truth.

Most of us have heard the adage ‘Truth is stranger than fiction.’
The older I get; the more I find this axiom to be absolutely TRUE.

Recently, I’ve been buried in a great deal of fascinating and exciting historical research that substantiates this concept in spades. I have read so many contradictory ‘facts’ and ‘truths’ about the same events or groups (for example…the Templars, the Vikings, Native American Indians, the Freemasons and America’s Founding Fathers) that I’ve come to the point, once again, of redefining my perception and definition of what TRUTH really means. I’ve also become magnetized by the term ‘revisionist history’. As my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. McBride, taught us as a first step in any investigation,

“When in doubt about a word or meaning, go to the Dictionary!”

TRUTH: Conformity to fact or reality; veracity (agreement with actual fact) or honesty; a true statement; fidelity (careful and exact observance; exactness in reproduction); constancy; a spiritual or philosophical verity (the quality of being real).

REVISIONIST: To revise; as in to examine or reexamine and make changes, corrections or to amend. A preference and encouragement of deviation from other theories or accounts of fact or truth.

HISTORY: From the Greek Historia: Learning by inquiry. That branch of knowledge that deals with events that have already taken place; the study or investigation of the past; a narrative of past events; a drama dealing with past events; a story or tale.

As a child growing up and as an over-zealous student with huge pre-programmed blinders firmly in place; I viewed TRUTH as a one-dimensional, black or white sacred stone. If I had been asked to put an image with the word in lower school; inevitably it would have been a towering column or pillar from the Parthenon that could withstand the test of time. In high school, I might have seen truth as the Great Pyramid. At university, it would have looked more like Mt. Everest… I was the intrepid climber; asking myself, “Will I ever reach the summit and really understand what TRUTH is all about!” (Ah, the joys of budding intellectual and philosophical angst).

Then I joined what many referred to as ‘the real world’ and went to ‘work’. I no longer took the time to fully explore the narrowing and treacherous trail that led to TRUTH but I was becoming increasingly bombarded by confusing definitions of what truth actually represented. My sacred stone was morphing into a vaporous, transparent almost invisible mirage; wavering in the explosive contradictions of other people’s truth.

Of course, over the last thirty years, the Great Teacher we call ‘Experience’ gave me a series of seemingly on-going crash courses in survival that might have been named…TRUTH: Does It Really Exist?

For better or worse; I had the privilege of surviving unimaginable treachery; lies in all their slippery guises, deceit, manipulations and betrayals beyond even my wildest imagination. Yes, I call this a PRIVILEGE because I survived the most vicious enemies of my personal TRUTH without being conquered or destroyed.

I have come to appreciate that one of the greatest gifts of this horrific experience was to break through the imposed barriers and once again, as in my youth, question everything. There is a potentially catastrophic downside to this awareness. Age and experience can beget cynicism, rigidity, futility, jealousy, bitterness, an inability to DREAM, loss of HOPE, absence of JOY and deep wells of UNHAPPINESS… which invite DIS-EASE and death; both physical and spiritual. Unfortunately, we seem to allow so much fear to dance around the circle of TRUTH! The wonder of human intelligence is that our free will allows us to make choices and adjust our attitudes.

At this point, I realize how ridiculous it is to try and capture TRUTH in only a few words. It simply isn’t possible. Allow me to reel myself back in to A.J. Balfour’s quote.

TRUTH as a tent.
Somehow this image feels right.
Imagination carries me away…

I see William Shakespeare, on a midsummer night, sitting alone under a beautiful green tent at the beach. The flaps have been tied back, allowing the unseasonably warm sea breezes to touch his face. The ocean roars in his ears. As he looks up at the stars, all is revealed…To thine own self be TRUE.

TRUTH just doesn’t get any better than that.

IMAGINE

2007-06-25T19:41:00.000-05:00

IMMERSE YOURSELF IN A FEW MOMENTS OF HOPE!
Don't forget to click on the 'Full Screen' icon for a powerful view...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EdHV8O6VoQ0

DOLPHIN MEDICINE

2007-06-21T19:40:00.000-05:00

This week, we are in the Florida Keys where Dolphins dwell in abundance.

Native Americans believe that Dolphins are the keepers of the sacred breath of life. If you have ever watched a Dolphin swim, you will observe a beautiful rhythm as they move through the water and breath before submerging; then hold their breath for the duration while underwater. When Dolphins resurface, they will blow out their breath in a manner which sounds like the popping of a cork. Humans can learn much from this technique; as a ‘popping’ forceful exhale is a terrific remedy for releasing stress and tension.

Dolphin is a messenger of Manna or the life force which exists in every material particle of energy. Some relate this to the Great Spirit’s essence. Dolphin teaches us to use Manna or energy through breath; revitalizing and healing each organ and cell.

There is a Native American story describing the power of Dolphin. In Jamie Sams and David Carson’s book Medicine Cards they share their interpretation,

“Dolphin was traveling the oceans one day as Grandmother Moon was weaving the patterns of the tides. Grandmother Moon asked Dolphin to learn her rhythms so that he could open his female side to her silvery light. Dolphin began to swim to the rhythm of her tide weaving, and learned to breathe in a new way. As Dolphin continued to use this new rhythm, he entered the Dreamtime. This reality was a new and different place from the seas he had known.

Dolphin came to discover underwater cities in the Dreamtime and was given the gift of the primordial tongue. This new language was the sound-language…Dolphin learned that all communication was pattern and rhythm and that the new aspect of communication was sound; he carries this original pattern to this day.

Dolphin returned to the ocean of the Great Mother and was very sad until Whale came by and told Dolphin that he could return to be a messenger to the Dreamtime dwellers anytime he felt the rhythm and used his breath. Dolphin was given a new job. He became the carrier of messages of our progress. The Dreamtime dwellers were curious about the children of Earth and wanted us to grow to be at one with Great Spirit. Dolphin was to be the link.”

Next time you see a Dolphin, remember he is a symbol; representing the gift of AIR and your ability to BREATHE! Now…close your eyes…and take three, slow belly-deep breathes before clicking off.
Breathe in slowly through your nose. “POP” a forceful breath out through your mouth.
ONE MORE TIME!

Dolphin Humour

2007-06-19T08:54:00.000-05:00

"Man has always assumed that he was more intelligent than dolphins because he had achieved so much…the wheel, New York, wars and so on…while all the dolphins had ever done was muck about in the water having a good time.

But conversely, the dolphins had always believed that they were far more intelligent than man…for precisely the same reason."

--Douglas Noel Adams—
Author of Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy

500 YEARS OF WOMEN IN ART

2007-06-14T11:28:00.000-05:00

ENJOY THIS ARTISTIC FEAST!

Click on the link below. Go 'full screen' for a WOW experience.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nUDIoN-_Hxs

Another Woman Who Dared

2007-06-08T11:40:00.000-05:00

Sarah Winnemucca
1844-1891
Photo courtesy of Nevada Historical Society

Sarah Winnemucca was a woman from the future.

An intelligent and respected translator-negotiator; she gained fame and amazing recognition during her short forty-seven year lifetime. Sarah came to be considered a powerful Native American rights activist. She traveled extensively, lecturing on behalf of her People. Passionate about education, she established a school for Native American children in Nevada.

The next time you find yourself in the town of Winnemucca, Nevada…take a moment to remember this petite but powerful woman.

Faye's Monet - Panel # 2

2007-06-04T15:29:00.000-05:00

Original Oil by Faye Tyler
1910-1990

A tulip doesn’t strive to impress anyone.
It doesn’t struggle to be different than a rose.
It doesn’t have to.
It is different.
And there’s room in the garden for every flower.

--Marianne Williamson--

Faye's Monet - Panel # 1

2007-06-03T21:20:00.000-05:00

Panel # 1

Original Oil by Faye Tyler
1910-1990

FAYE TYLER – A WOMAN WHO DARED
Excerpt from a Chapter – 1st Draft
By Royce Addington

Awake, just after sunrise, Faye removed the plastic tubing apparatus from her nose that kept a steady stream of oxygen breathing into her body as she tried to sleep through the nights of pain and discomfort. The floor to ceiling sliding glass panels beside her bed allowed the early morning light to wash through the elegantly decorated room. She could hear the incoming tide of the San Francisco Bay just below her little balcony.

It took an incredible amount of energy and effort to get out of bed but she knew it would be worth the exertion. Faye reached for her shell pink cameo coloured bathrobe draped across the back of her favorite antique Louis XVI chair. Slowly she put it on, tying the cognac coloured ribbon at the neck in a loose flowing bow down the front of her cherished chiffon layered sheath. Faye loved how the satin ribbon felt as it slid through her artistic hands.

Every morning, her routine was the same. She padded the few short steps into the tiny galley kitchen to make a first cup of strong instant Yuban coffee. She waited impatiently for the water to boil. The day was going to be glorious and she was bursting with the desire to throw open the glass doors and wander among the profusion of her beloved flowers.

At 79, Faye had transformed her twenty by eight foot deck into a veritable wonderland of artistic beauty and serenity. Over the years, she had acquired an incredible eye for designing spaces, combining shapes, colours and fragrances. For the last few years, this unassuming weathered wooden deck had become her world and her canvas. Huge verdigris pots and flower boxes filled with masses of blooming old roses the colours of sunset danced with enormous hydrangeas and lilies of the Nile. There were pansies and marigolds. Japanese poppies and lilac. Nasturtiums and a morning glory vine gone mad. In the corner, she had the gardener place a five foot tall Myers Lemon tree which filled the sea air with a delicious tangy fragrance. Her naughty orange tabby named Thomas claimed this pot as his very own. Every afternoon he could be found languishing there; swishing his tail to warn anyone who might be contemplating an interruption of his nap.

On this fresh morning of new beginnings, Faye sipped from her favorite English china mug painted with a bouquet of roses with an opalescent glaze. It sparkled like a bubble in the sunlight. A fleeting sense of human mortality landed lightly on her stiff and aching shoulder. Faye chuckled to herself,

“I’m most definitely an eccentric old woman who, of course, does NOT see herself as old. I still have great legs! Getting old is the shits! It’s really quite funny! Here I am cheerfully conversing with the Angel of Death disguised as a butterfly…and it’s all OK. Who was it that said,

“All is well. All is well. And…all will be well.”

Damn! I’m going to chew on that bit all day today until I remember.”

“Yes, I know…” Faye said out loud to no one but herself.

She knew this was the last chapter of her life. How perfectly appropriate that Monet was on her mind this morning as she admired her little paradise. It still took her breath away each and every time she saw one of his masterpieces. The artistic expression and passion had spoken directly to her heart. Faye mused,

“Claude, my friend, you are the one who taught me to paint from my soul! What would Oprah call it? Ah, yes…My AHhhh HhAaaa Moment! I hope you give painting lessons in the Great Beyond?”

Faye set her coffee mug on the small ornate iron table that faced the impressive bridge connecting Marin to the East Bay. This was not Giverny but it would do just fine. In her thirties, Faye had dreamed of one day seeing Giverny; wandering through the magnificent gardens in Monet’s footsteps and even perhaps painting there for an afternoon. The Fates had other plans.

Unconsciously, she took a long deep breath and recognized a twinge of regret mixed with angina pain; her heart muscle contracting as if to say,

“Hey, remember me? I am the emotion and passionate well of all you have done. I allowed your imagination and creativity to play along, but the soul of your work is my gig! I demand attention be paid! Can you feel me now?”

Faye smiled. Today would be a good day. Like no other. As if to confirm these thoughts, a majestic pair of Canadian geese gently landed on the calm water just off shore. They drifted along the incoming tidal current craning their elegant necks, looking up to her balcony with expectancy.

Dave, Faye’s handsome grandson, had told her that Canadian geese mate for life. Dave was so like what she remembered about her Cherokee father. They both shared a deep love, respect and psychic understanding of nature, animals and the earth. Both men had chosen a life of adventure and danger. Faye realized that, at this very moment, Dave too might be gazing out across a vast sea as he left the port of Homer, Alaska. Tears of pride and nostalgia filled her eyes. As she wiped a tear that had slipped down her high-boned cheek, she motioned for the geese to come closer,

“Oh…all right then! Wait here! I‘ll be back with the most delicious crusts you have ever tasted.”

BLACK ELK'S VISION

2007-05-31T21:25:00.000-05:00

"I was standing on the highest mountain of them all, and round about beneath me was the whole hoop of the world. And while I stood there I saw more than I can tell and I understood more than I saw; for I was seeing in a sacred manner the shapes of all things in the spirit, and the shape of all shapes as they must live together like one being.

And I saw that the sacred hoop of my people was one of many hoops that made one circle, wide as daylight and as starlight, and in the center grew one mighty flowering tree to shelter all children of one mother and one father. And I saw that it was holy."

Postscript: For a short bio on Black Elk visit www.MUSEologies.blogspot.com

TORO NAGASHI

2007-05-24T20:56:00.001-05:00

This coming Monday – 28 May 2007 – (Memorial Day in the United States) along the shores at Ala Moana Beach Park on the island of Oahu; 1000 illuminated floating lanterns will be released simultaneously as “lantern offerings on the water” or Toro Nagashi.

The Japanese ‘Toro Nagashi’ is a time-honoured Buddhist ritual. It respects and pays tribute to our ancestors while comforting the spirits of the deceased and their survivors. During the ceremony, candle-lit lanterns are individually set afloat on the ocean. It is believed that these illuminated lanterns ferry spirits “from the shore of delusion to the shore of salvation.” As they float out to sea, these lanterns carry heartfelt prayers for victims of natural disasters, water-related accidents, war, famine, disease as well as for personal loved ones who have died. Many participants fill out individual slips of paper which they attach to the lantern frames.

This ceremony unites all who participate, without regard to nationality, culture, politics or religion. It is an act of becoming “one human family” and the desire for a future in which harmony exists among all people regardless of their differences. Given Tokunaga, Executive Director of Na Lei Aloha, one of the groups that sponsor the festival explains it this way, “This is not a Hawaiian event. It’s not a Japanese event. It’s not an American event. It’s a human event.”

One of last year’s participants, writer Sarah Brueggemann, describes her experience,

“Though surrounded by masses of people, I feel a sense of calm. Some watch in silence. Others snap photos of the visual feast. All linger on the beach to witness the glowing orange as they drift out to sea. Standing aside, one woman wipes tears from her eyes, which shine brighter than any luminary…

As I walk among the crowd, strangers share their stories. A traveler who lost her husband to cancer tells me how he loved surfing in Hawaii. She sprinkled his ashes here and hopes that by returning, she can reconnect with him. Despite such poignant accounts, the mood isn’t melancholy. The feeling is one of shared contentment…

Everyone waits with anticipation for the ceremony to begin. Buddhist monks in crimson and gold robes walk solemnly to a hibiscus-ringed stage. Powerful drumming and chanting resonates through the assembly. As the sun sets, outrigger canoes paddle into position. A double-hull craft transports six large “parent” lanterns which sit on delicately carved bases that resemble canoes. Some have masts with gossamer sails. People line the banks with lanterns, forming a radiant arc. Once released, the flames move toward the horizon, seeming to disappear over the earth’s edge.”

Next year I hope to be standing on the shores of Ala Moana Beach.
I will light my lanterns for Faye, Jan, Paula & John, Walt, Harry, Max and Thomas. On slips of paper attached to each lantern, I will end my private tribute with a quote by Og Mandino,

“I will love the light for it shows me the way,
yet I will endure the darkness for it shows me the stars.”

--Royce--

THE WARRIOR WITHIN THE CIRCLE

2007-05-22T22:22:00.000-05:00

I am the one who protects you unconditionally and fearlessly from threats to your personal and creative freedom. I am the one who allows you to feel safe. I am the one who protects you from the Dark Side of yourself. I possess the power and the might to conquer your inner critics and crush them with a single blow. I am the one that listens to the council and wise wisdom of your Spirit Guides. Together we direct you and formulate strategies to win the battles you create for yourself both inside the spirit world and outside in the physical world. With my protection, ALL things are possible. With my strength and power you move forward into the unknown with boundless passion. I am the one who guards the portals of light that illuminate the Great Mysteries of Life and Spirit. I am the one who will stand by your side into a very old age. I am the one who will take your hand and guide you into the timeless time when you join with the Ancient Ones in celebration.

--Royce’s SoulCollage Vision--

WHAT GIVES THEM BEAUTY?

2007-05-15T19:20:00.001-05:00

I wonder whether the stars are set alight in heaven

So that one day each one of us may find his own again....

The stars, the desert --

What gives them their beauty is something that is invisible....

It is only with the heart that one can see rightly;

What is essential is invisible to the eye.
--Antoine de Saint-Exupery--

Forget Today's Blunders and Absurdities

2007-05-11T09:42:00.000-05:00

“FINISH EVERY DAY AND BE DONE WITH IT.
You have done what you could.
Some blunders and absurdities no doubt have crept in;
forget them as soon as you can.

TOMORROW IS A NEW DAY.
Begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit
to be cumbered with your old nonsense.

THIS DAY IS ALL THAT IS GOOD AND FAIR.
It is too dear,
with its hopes and invitations, to waste a moment on yesterdays.”

Thank you Ralph Waldo Emerson!

AIR CASTLES

2007-05-07T22:02:00.000-05:00

Air Castles
By Maxfield Parrish
Cover for Ladies’ Home Journal 1904

"IF YOU HAVE BUILT CASTLES IN THE AIR,
YOUR WORK NEED NOT BE LOST;
THAT IS WHERE THEY SHOULD BE.
NOW,
PUT THE FOUNDATIONS UNDER THEM."

--Henry David Thoreau--

AUDACITY + VISION = THE FUN FACTOR

2007-05-05T22:59:00.000-05:00

Step through the transformational portal where we can LIVE, CREATE and INSPIRE from our heart and soul without worrying one whit about what anyone else thinks!

A uthenticity
U niqueness
D aring
A dventurous-ness
C ourage
I ndividuality
T o Thine Own Self Be True
Y earning for the Creative & Inspirational “Yummies” of Life!

THE FUN FULL-osophy

2007-04-30T08:13:00.000-05:00

F orget
U ndermining
N egatives

In all our pursuits, we have learned there is great power in practicing THE FUN FULL-osophy! This week we nominate the talented and imaginative Robert Fulghum as our Team Captain. He suggests that:

“Maybe we should develop a Crayola bomb as our next secret weapon. A happiness weapon. A beauty bomb. And every time a crisis developed, we would launch one. It would explode high in the air – explode softly – and send thousands, millions of little parachutes into the air. Floating down to earth – boxes of Crayolas. And we wouldn’t go cheap, either – not little boxes of eight. Boxes of sixty-four, with the sharpener built right in. With silver and gold and copper, magenta and peach and lime, amber and umber and all the rest. And people would smile and get a little funny look on their faces and cover the world with their imagination. "

TODAY, COLOR THE WORLD WITH YOUR IMAGINATION!
Up, Up and Away…

TRUTH

2007-04-28T09:06:00.000-05:00

“IF IT IS NOT TRUTHFUL AND NOT HELPFUL, DON’T SAY IT.

IF IT IS TRUTHFUL AND NOT HELPFUL, DON’T SAY IT.

IF IT IS NOT TRUTHFUL AND HELPFUL, DON’T SAY IT.

IF IT IS TRUTHFUL AND HELPFUL, WAIT FOR THE RIGHT TIME.”

Buddha
‘The Enlightened One’

WE ARE THE ONES WE'VE BEEN WAITING FOR

2007-04-23T09:44:00.000-05:00

WATCHING THE DANCERS
HOPI NATION
Photo by Edward S. Curtis

THIS IS THE HOUR
The Hopi Nation Elders Speak

“You have been telling the people that this is the Eleventh Hour.
Now you must go back and tell the people that this is the Hour.
And there are things to be considered.
Where are you living?
What are you doing?
What are your relationships?
Are you in right relation?
Where is your water?
Know your garden.
It is time to speak your Truth.
Create your community.
Be good to each other.
And do not look outside yourself for the leader.
This could be a good time!

There is a river flowing now very fast.
It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid.
They will try to hold onto the shore.
They will feel they are being torn apart and they will suffer greatly.
Know the river has its destination.
The Elders say we must let go of the shore.
Push off into the middle of the river.
Keep our eyes open and our heads above the water.
See who is in there with you and celebrate.
At this time in history, we are to take nothing personally.
Least of all, ourselves.
For the moment that we do,
Our spiritual growth and journey comes to a halt.
The time of the lone wolf is over.
Gather yourselves!
Banish the word struggle from your attitude and your vocabulary.
All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration.
We are the ones we’ve been waiting for."

NATIONAL CREATIVITY DAY E=MC2

2007-04-21T10:26:00.000-05:00

ILLUSTRATION OF EINSTEIN BY SABRINA RAE POWELL

WHAT DO SOPHIA AND ALBERT HAVE IN COMMON?
THEY BOTH BELIEVE IN THE POWER OF CREATIVITY!

THE WORD CREATE COMES FROM THE LATIN CREATUS:
To bring into being that which is original, innovative or imaginative.
To cause to exist; produce; to evolve from one’s own thought.

QUOTES FOR THE DAY:

“Imagination is more important than knowledge”
--Albert Einstein—

“There is a fountain of youth; it is your mind, your talents, the creativity you bring to your life and the lives of the people you love. When you learn to tap this source, you will have truly defeated age.”
--Sophia Loren--

“This day I have imagined something wonderful that I shall surely CREATE!”
--Royce Addington--

CREATIVE QUESTION FOR THE DAY:

COULD E = MC2… REALLY MEAN…
ENERGY = MIND X CREATIVITY to the 2nd POWER?

IT'S NEVER TOO LATE

2007-04-16T08:56:00.000-05:00

THE WISDOM OF AN EX-BUDDHIST MONK

2007-04-10T09:01:00.000-05:00

1998
Inverness, California

It was an amazingly beautiful fall afternoon. In the glowing golden coastal light, we shared a memorable meal with a charming unconventional man who once lived in Asia for many years as a practicing Buddhist monk even though he was a born and bred Yank. We had been casual friends; initiates to the early morning “regulars” who met at the Parkside Café in Stinson Beach on our way “over the hill”. This transient group of eclectic “locals” enjoyed many a lively conversation and debate. Bob always sat in the same place at the counter and did not appreciate anyone claiming “his spot” which, inevitably, made it all the more motivating (FUN!) to arrive at the café before he did and commandeer it.

Bob is a thinking man with a deliciously irreverent sense of humor and a profound sense about life. On this particular evening, we shared some very upsetting business/financial issues and our recent discovery of irrevocable betrayals by people we had implicitly trusted and respected…family…a brother. Bob listened intently, without interruption. When we had finished our story, he took out a pen and wrote something on a small piece of paper torn from the bottom of our dinner receipt. Without a word, he pushed the paper across the table. It read,

“He who clings to a moment of joy
Does the winged life destroy
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity’s sunrise”

We looked at him, somewhat puzzled as to what these words actually mean. Bob serenely sipped from his glass of wine. He smiled as he leaned forward and gently said,

“Remember…it’s a journey…all of it. Ask yourself, “What am I learning?”

Never give your personal freedom to another. Decide what teaches you; what makes you a more compassionate person. Guard your spirit, imagination, creative intellect and physical life. Disengage from those people, places and things that harm your essential self. Discovering betrayal…turning and walking away from betrayal…may just be your road to authentic freedom. Let these painful chords teach you but then allow them to fall away and disappear into the light of the universe. Once you truly learn to protect yourself; your “essential self” will ripple and dance with the magnificence of “being” and “living life” in the present moment. This is the essence of joy; a feeling that flies in and out of life on the wings of a moment. It’s illusive and immune to captivity.

We each carry a powerful and unique spiritual imprint. Follow the path of love, kindness gratitude and compassion towards yourself as well as others. Each moment waits to fill you with an awareness and energetic source beyond imagining. The panoramic view of Eternity’s sunrise is always right here (he snaps his fingers)!”

Almost a decade has passed. Writing about it today, from the perspective of a radically changed life (an eight year adventure story in progress) where we live happily ever after in a land far far away (most of the time anyway) still has the capacity to bring tears of wonder and gratitude. Powerful words at a pivotal moment can change lives. It did ours.

Cheers to you Bob where ever you may be.

Postscript:
Never underestimate the power you possess to change yourself and your life.

THE POWER OF IMAGE AND LANGUAGE

2007-04-04T14:27:00.000-05:00

This exceptional photo was taken by Y. Nagaskai; winner of the “LOVE” category in the M.I.L.K. Photographic Competition. The description reads: “Holding hands in the surf – an elderly couple get away from it all on Sandy Hook Beach in New Jersey, USA”

THOUGHTS TO CONSIDER:

“WHAT MAKES YOUR HEART FLUTTER?
DO ONLY THAT.
THERE IS NOT ENOUGH TIME FOR ANYTHING ELSE.”
--Richard P. Feynman—
Nobel Laureate in Physics

“THE TRUE OBJECT OF ALL HUMAN LIFE IS PLAY.”
--G.K. Chesterton--

“WE ARE NOT OLD UNTIL REGRETS TAKE THE PLACE OF DREAMS.”
--John Barrymore—

A GIFT FROM THE SECRET SCROLLS

2007-04-03T21:44:00.000-05:00

WWW.youtube.com
IN THE SEARCH BOX TYPE IN: THE SECRET TO YOU

"TODAY IS THE BEGINNING OF MY NEW LIFE
I AM STARTING OVER TODAY
ALL GOOD THINGS ARE COMING TO ME TODAY
I AM GRATEFUL TO BE ALIVE
I SEE BEAUTY ALL AROUND ME
I LIVE WITH PASSION AND PURPOSE
I TAKE TIME TO LAUGH AND PLAY EVERY DAY
I AM AWAKE, ENERGIZED AND ALIVE
I FOCUS ON ALL THE GOOD THINGS IN LIFE
AND GIVE THANKS FOR THEM
I AM AT PEACE AND ONE WITH EVERYTHING
I FEEL THE LOVE, THE JOY, THE ABUNDANCE
I AM FREE TO BE MYSELF
I AM MAGNIFICENCE IN HUMAN FORM
I AM THE PERFECTION OF LIFE
I AM GRATEFUL TO BE…
ME
TODAY IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE"
--Text From The Video--

APRIL

2007-04-02T15:47:00.000-05:00

APRIL
An Original Painting by Faye Tyler (1910-1990)

“I have always tried to hide my efforts and wished my works to have the light joyousness of springtime which never lets anyone suspect the labors it has cost.”

--HENRI MATISSE (1869-1954)--

28 MARCH 1976

2007-03-28T08:20:00.000-05:00

31 years ago this afternoon a handsome young man read this poem at his Sister’s wedding. She married an amazing, heart happy, wise old soul (even at 22!). The magic of this poem may be one of the reasons they still respect, Love and admire each other beyond measure on this adventure called LIFE. HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!

MARRIAGE
From The Prophet
By Khalil Gibran

Then Almitra spoke again and said,
“And what of Marriage, master?”
And he answered saying:

You were born together
And together you shall be forevermore
You shall be together
When white wings of death scatter your days
Aye, you shall be together
Even in the silent memory of God
But let there be spaces in your togetherness
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you
Love one another
But make not a bond of love
Let it rather be
A moving sea
Between the shores of your souls
Fill each other’s cup
But drink not from one cup
Give one another of your bread
But eat not from the same loaf
Sing and dance together
Be joyous
But let each one of you be alone
Even as the strings of a lute are alone
Though they quiver with the same music
Give your hearts
But not into each other’s keeping
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts
And stand together
Yet, not too near together
For the pillars of the temple stand apart
And the oak tree and the cypress grow
Not in each other’s shadow

RISK

2007-03-27T15:02:00.000-05:00

To laugh is to risk appearing the fool.
To weep is to risk appearing sentimental.
To reach out for another is to risk involvement.
To expose feelings is to risk exposing your true self.

To place your ideas…your dreams

Before the crowd, is to risk their loss.

To love is to risk not being loved in return.
To live is to risk dying.
To hope is to despair.
To try is to risk failure.

But risks must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.
The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing and is nothing.
They may avoid suffering and sorrow,
But they simply cannot learn, feel, change, grow, love and live.

Chained by their certitudes they are a slave.
They have forfeited freedom.
Only a person who risks is truly free.
The greatest risk is to risk nothing at all.

Postcript: We can’t seem to locate the official documentation clarifying exactly who wrote this powerful piece. It has been attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson, T.S. Eliot and Dr. Earl Reun. These Museologists are willing to accept the idea of a collaboration through time and space….because, after all…imagination, inspiration and creativity are timeless.

Mermaid As Muse

2007-03-23T14:01:00.000-05:00

John William Waterhouse: A Mermaid - 1901

Once I sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,
That the rude sea grew civil at her song,
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres
To hear the sea-maid’s music.

William Shakespeare
A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Death Is Nothing At All

2007-03-13T21:49:00.000-05:00

Death Is Nothing At All
By Canon Henry Scott-Holland (1847–1918)
Canon of St. Paul’s Cathedral, England

Death is nothing at all
I have only slipped away into the next room
I am I and You are You
Whatever we were to each other
That we are still
Call me by my old familiar name
Speak to me in the easy way you always used
Put no difference into your tone
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow
Laugh as we always laughed
At the little jokes we always enjoyed together
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was
Let it be spoken without effort
Without the ghost of a shadow in it
Life means all that it ever meant
It is the same as it ever was
There is absolute unbroken continuity
What is death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind
Because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you for an interval
Somewhere very near
Just around the corner
All is well.
Nothing is past; nothing is lost
One brief moment and all will be as it was before
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

DON'T MISS THIS INSPIRATIONAL MOMENT

2007-03-12T12:30:00.000-05:00

www.212movie.com

There Is A Voice That Doesn't Use Words

2007-03-10T12:13:00.000-05:00

THE MEN THAT DON'T FIT IN

2007-03-05T08:25:00.000-05:00

THE MEN THAT DON’T FIT IN
By: Robert Service

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
A race that can’t stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain’s crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don’t know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they’re always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say,

“Could I find my proper groove, what a deep mark I would make!”
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past.
Till he stands one day, with a hope that’s dead,
In the glare of the Truth at last.

He has failed. He has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life’s been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha. Ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He’s a rolling stone, and it’s bred in the bone;
He’s a man who won’t fit in.

ROBERT SERVICE

2007-03-04T16:56:00.000-05:00

Rhymes of a Rolling Stone 1912
Just Think!

Just Think!
Some night the stars will gleam
Upon a cold gray stone,
And trace a name with silver beam,
And lo! ‘twill be your own.

That night is speeding on to greet
Your epitaphic rhyme.
Your life is but a little beat
Within the heart of Time.

A little gain, a little pain,
A laugh lest you may moan;
A little blame, a little fame,
A star gleam on your stone.

My Heart Is A Sweet Maui Onion

2007-02-06T10:10:00.000-05:00

Artwork by Patricia J. Mosca (www.pjmosca.blogspot.com)

Peel back the fragile layers
And what do we choose to see
Beware and go with caution
For it’s a place you will forever “BE”

There’s no turning back
The essence unfolds…
Pungent and Powerful
Sometimes Painful
Sometimes Bold

Personal Truths may await you
Stark realizations unwittingly keep you bound
Ruthless disappointment may reign within
Hope and Desire
They MUST be found!

Transparent as dragonfly wings
Thick as crimson blood
What is revealed
May be quite clear
Or Quicksand
Or Mud

If all fears were but illusion
The inner critics banished for eternity
Self-sabotage would be non-existent
This freedom is Passion’s key

Without self-doubt or recrimination
Where could our imaginations flow
Possibilities are infinite
The sweet heart of our inner Universe
Always waits to tell us so…

Robert Burns A RED, RED ROSE

2007-02-04T11:13:00.000-05:00

O my love is like a red, red rose

That's newly sprung in June;

My love like the melody

That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonny lass,

So deep in love am I;

And I will love thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun;

I will love thee still, my dear,

While the sands o'life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only love!

And fare thee weel, awhile!

And I will come again, my love

Though it were ten thousand mile.

A KEY WEST WINTER...FAR FAR AWAY

2007-02-02T21:53:00.000-05:00

Photograph By T.P. Netting and L.E. Todhunter

A KEY WEST WINTER...

FAR FAR AWAY...

PARADISE FOUND...

Tropical mangroves are alive with rare butterflies

The sea full of shimmering iridescent shells

An indigo sky turns a molten gold at sunset

An enchanted land

Far Far Away

Where magic and muses dwell...

--Royce Addington--

THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

2007-01-31T10:50:00.000-05:00

Through The Looking Glass ©
By Royce Addington

Through the Looking Glass
What do we see
A Mirror Image
Of You
Of Me

Into the darkness
We fall so far
It’s part of the process
Discovering
Who we are

Splash down
Splash up
It’s really all the same
Our mind is an ocean
Swimmers in a cosmic game

What colour is illusion
Can we begin to know
Let’s choose to believe
Clear melting snow

Kaleidoscope
Prism
Mercury
Sand
The elixir for magic
Reflections in hand

Rumi
Einstein
Leonardo too

Look one more time
Yes
They are smiling at you!

The Essence of Love

2007-01-23T11:13:00.002-05:00

"There is a well of Infinity hidden within each Soul
There you will find an incredible Energy Source
Beyond your broadest imagining
It is Light and Healing
The Force of Nature
The Essence of Love"
--Royce Addington--

Royce is honoured that www.joyofquotes.com considers this as a Joy Quote

2007-01-22T18:15:00.000-05:00

2007...Just Begin Again

The most Sacred Place dwells within our Heart
Where Dreams are born and Secrets sleep
A mystical refuge of Darkness and Light
Fear and Conquest
Adventure and Discovery
Challenge and Transformation
Our Heart speaks for our Soul
Every moment while we are alive
Listen... as the whispering beat repeats
Be...gin Be...gin Be...gin
It's really that simple
Just Begin Again

--Royce Addington--

WORDS

2007-01-08T22:50:00.001-05:00

"Ah, but I love to draw beautiful words, like trumpets of light...I adore you, words who are sensitive to our sufferings, words in red and lemon yellow, words in the steel-blue color of certain insects, words with the scent of vibrant silks, subtle words of fragrant roses and seaweed, prickly words of sky-blue wasps, words with powerful snouts, words of spotless ermine, words spat out by the sands of the sea, words greener than the Cyrene fleece, discreet words whispered by fishes in the pink ears of shells, bitter words, words of fleurs-de-lis and Flemish cornflowers, sweet words with a pictorial ring, plaintive words of horses being beaten, evil words, fesitive words, tornado and storm-tossed words, windy words, reedy words, the wise words of children, rainy, tearful words, without rhyme or reason, I love you! I love you! "

---The Belgian Artist James Ensor---