She looks at me with a mischievous grin and says we need eggs. I still have a few in the fridge but I fervently agree, nodding my head with vigor. Eggs are a code word.
She has been talking about rock hounding and they are planning road trips summoned by the magical powers of distant stones in the earth. I was not sure at first but more than willing to go along, now I realize I might be looking for my soul as I chip through the rock. Where have I been hiding? I am so glad that you found me. I will tumble and somersault through this life and then one day I will shine again. It is not the smooth experiences that make us who we are, it is the rough parts, the abrasions we thought were wounds that would scar us that show our inner beauty.
We make our way to out into the valley in Gertrude, the little car that could. There is so much laughter my ribs hurt and my dimples permanently crease my cheeks. We all come as we are here. There are no pretenses or masks. We are all honest when we are together. We weave through thrift shop isles and wind through farmer’s markets. Each of us finding our own treasures. Our purpose lies in a Rock shop way out in the middle of nowhere. They speak of mines and cliffs and sacred places and I pour over stones like creek water. I find so many pretties but I look for ones that speak to me. I find a green Apatite. The man is a hunter not a diviner but hands me a book that connects me to the meaning.
Balances wisdom of the mind and the heart; abundance stone; use it to assist in communication with Nature and all its spirits.
My fingers find the perfect one and my third eye acknowledges the power. They each warm the stone with their energies and I feel blessed.
I have a spoon that will be a bracelet and a rock in my pocket.
We head back to the farm house to talk art and peruse the dead room. I am in need of feathers and she offers a barter to organize her for the things I need. We agree happily. I possess bags of beautiful feathers now in my freezer and two wings and Roxanne’s head on my deck having a date with Dermestid beetles. The deck faintly reeks of death, but soon there will be deft fingers redefining beauty from nature. We shall all wear feathers like Suzanne that Leonard sung so sultry of.
Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
The car was full of willow and I am stripping leaves by moonlight now recollecting the joy of the earlier hours. I am barefoot kneeling on the parched earth. I smell green in the dim white light of the squinting eye that watches me from above. Tomorrow there will be weaving to catch dreams.