This collection provides a glimpse of the beauty, of the serene landscape of Lemuria.

Work of
Edwina Peterson Cross

What's In A Name?
Edwina Peterson Cross - Artist
Golden Seed Grove - Aspen
Golden Seed Grove -Elements
Golden Seed Grove - The Piper
Ancient Tree Wisdom
Creative Principles
Twentieth Century Sun Worship
These I Have Loved
Polishing Diamonds
Germanic Tradition Soul Food
Lemurian Poetry Corner
Sandpainting
Ashland Lights
The Tale
The Moonlit Water Garden
Lemurian Women's Dance
Surrealism - A Collection
Beyond the Looking Glass
Bears in The Wood
Narnian Cookbook
Artist Party
Tree Day

 

The Lemurian Collection

All day long the door to the sub-conscious remains just ajar; we slip through to the other side and return again, as easily and secretly as a cat....
Walter De La Mare, Behold, this Dreamer! 1939

Healing Ritual at the Moonlight Water Garden
by Edwina Peterson Cross

I found the link to the Soul Food Café on the software program, Life Journal.

I wandered through it, amazed at the abundance of tools and exercises for writers. I was surprised and pleased to find information on mythology and especially on the touch of the Muse, a special delight of mine. There was interesting reading all the way through.

I wandered down to the Southern Cross, past the Angel cards, checking out a few of the myriad of other web links available. Who is this Heather Blakey who has laid out all this wealth so beautifully? What incredible bounty! It is a feast for the eyes as well as the mind.

Then I clicked Lemuria Calling and read the quote by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. A sharply indrawn breath stayed in my lungs much longer than usual. Certainly, someone put this here just for me!

The dance of synchronicity whirls me around once again. I read slowly through the quote a second time, and with my fingers trembling slightly on the keyboard, followed it into Lemuria.

Much, much later, when I finally left Lemuria, I left behind hunks of a huge, hoary, writer's block which has been my unwelcome, but constant companion for some time now. I left its thick, ugly skin laying in the deep green foliage beside the Moonlight Water Garden. I expect it will be gone by the next time I come.

And I will come again.

Though I didn't know it, I have been looking for Lemuria. I have been walking long. Walking through a barren, meaningless world; a hollow echoing emptiness devoid of words. Words that had painted my life with wonder since I first discovered them; glimmering like luscious butterflies around my ears, brushing their sweet meanings against my lips, running in rainbow rivers from my pen. Words that had somehow suddenly gone; dried into dust, parched into nothing.

Approaching Lemuria, I could see between the rock walls that the air was quivering; a bright tremulous pulse that murmured of magic. I hesitated, and then plunged through. As I passed under the ancient stone arches, a shiver traced my backbone.

Following the winding paths, I hardly saw the country around me, drawn forward as if by something magnetic. As I kept walking, the late sun began to fade and twilight softly pearled the sky. Still I pushed on, hurrying toward some unknown goal. Darkness descended; a curtain of soft black velvet with an old-ivory moon swimming and flickering through the tree tops.

At last I came to the Water Garden, and knew I had reached my goal. I stood transfixed, staring down into the bright, crystalline depth. Something inside me trembled with recognition. I knew this liquideep enchantment. I knew it carried a message. I knew it could wash me clean. More importantly, I knew it could wash me full. Iridescent moonbeams danced and reveled through the water as it broke into clean, clear circles above the rocks. I stepped forward into ritual space and brushed the healing waters with my fingertips.

This is what I want most of all. To sit here beside the Moonlight Water Garden waiting for words. Watching for conceptions and perceptions bubbling up from the depth of the crystalline water. Metaphors will come softly, lighting against the blue veins of my temples like moths with powdery wings. I will sigh with delicious consummation as they sink into my mind. Images will come with the beat of hawk wings, appearing suddenly, black against the milky moon, churning the night scented air. When the message comes, it will not come on soft feet whispering through the dew glistened grass. It will not come with the brass bell of trumpets striding through the trees. It will rise softly and mysteriously into the hollow space below my breast bone. It will flow, fluid and effortlessly through my body, spirit and mind, smoothing the spiny, nettled hurt inside me; filling ragged holes with gentle, soothing fingers; leaving me full and whole. Into the gentle, green woodhush, Mother of the Ages, my essence, my self, will whisper two soul-deep, liquid words: Forgive. Yourself. It is time and I have come to the place. In the still, sweet woodsoaked darkness, in ritual silence, I begin to brush away from thought and bone the clinging cobwebs of blame. The ragged gray shreds are swept cleanly away, swept from flesh, swept from memory. There is no censure in the soft warm flood that has filled my knowing. Beside the moonlit water dreams a lucid soul, innocent where innocence has always been. The wise woman within understands this. Nothing surprises her. She has seen it all. Clear-eyed and strong, with a small half smile on her lips, she waits. She waits . . . for words. She knows they will come.


Edwina Peterson Cross April 28, 2002

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