Gathering the Stories » H a v e n

redemption from the plague

Haven — Sat, 29 Feb 2020 05:31:37 +0000

‘The vision, however new and culturally unique, is translated back into a traditional oral format: the new within the old, reflecting the tenacity of oral tradition.’
“Magic in the Mountains: The Yakima Shaman: Power & Practice”, by Donald Hines, 1993

Grandma Shirley and the songs of forgotten dreams.

The stratosphere of my story is woven with so many American heartbreaks that my DNA seems permanently tuned to Patsy Cline’s “Fall to Pieces.” In these broken pieces, I’ve fought to carve out a sense of belonging—some place amidst the ruins of a well-fought war. My grandmother used to tell tales of family woes and heartbreak as if they were the very fabric of our shared ancestry.

http://www.gatheringthestories.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/02/Reconciled-dreams-feat-Grandma.mp3

Grandmother’s voice was golden—a place where she tucked away her secrets. She was a siren, luring you across a smoke-filled room with her sultry sadness and rough-around-the-edges charm. She found God in the holy waters of honky-tonks, at least until children and the rapture of everyday life claimed the sanctuary of her dreams. She traded in “Strange Fruit” for a father she thought she’d found in the dogmatic catacombs of Kingdom Halls. Still, she always shared that part of herself with me. She told the racy stories, grasping her hands like prayer, a nostalgic exhale slipping through the blinds. With me, she felt safe—a place to whisper her discontent with choices that turned her from the Old Ways of our blood. She saw the fire in me and tried to pass on the Ceremony. I ended up finding it myself. I found it in metal.

When I was young, my world seethed with the wonder of nature—the gilded peaks draped in mist, ancient trees resisting the chainsaw’s hum, rivers meandering in dramatic silence as forests fell like rain. These landscapes were soundtracked by stereo speakers blasting Black Sabbath, by motorcycles, Iron Maiden, skateboarding, and punk rock. I’d listen to quaking mountains scream like thunderbirds in 4/4 time and distortion, summoning visions through a haze of psychedelic experiments. (I believe my ancestors used mushrooms as a kind of message in a bottle—or, more accurately, a cap.)

I felt the anger and confusion of being cut off from my ancestors and the spirit of place, forced to bow to an anemic god who never had our Mother’s best intentions at heart, feeding us a diet of forgetting. Old stories would rise up, speaking of days lost to the corpses of progress and manifest destinies, as sweaty bodies slammed together in a prayerful trance. It was redemption from the plagues—at least for a little while.

Check out our band, Cathartes Aura.
Cathartes Aura by Cathartes Aura

Leaves Gather Their Breath

Haven — Thu, 13 Feb 2020 19:43:41 +0000

Leaves Gather Their Breath

The wind stands still
just for a moment
as the leaves
gather their
breath
before
the
long
descent
to
fertile grounds.

Immersed in cyclic
compost seeping
with mist.

the heat
of
Rebirth.

Leaves Gathering Their Breath | © H a v e n

The Maker of Rain

Haven — Fri, 07 Feb 2020 20:38:29 +0000

The Maker of Rain

The maker of rain sits in front of a forgotten sun
spilling forth its solemn tears it cries-
the rhythm of it’s sorrows sings sad songs
lamenting the long day in sheets of gray hues.
the echoes of thunderous choirs
and winds that chant through forests halls-
in these shadows-
the maker of rain summons.

Maker of Rain | © H a v e n

A Timeless Vortex

Haven — Wed, 29 Jan 2020 22:36:10 +0000

The constant sounds of falling water and rustling winds make up much of the landscape of the Gorge.

Dog Creek Falls, Washington

The warm Pacific ‘Chinook Winds’ dropping their rains against the cold easterly draft of the Plains. I love being in that cold nip of winter, everything is bright and chill. I get lost in the language of falling water, often watching the afternoons fade into the waining of dusk. There is a vortex here, that makes time stand still.

Whistling of ghosts

Haven — Wed, 23 Oct 2019 18:11:43 +0000

“The whistling of a ghost is like no other sound in a fistful of universes, because it is woven of all the whistles

“Old NP Railway”

the ghost has ever heard, and so it usually includes train moans, lunch whistles, fire alarms, and the affronted-virgin screaming of tea kettles.”
― Peter S. Beagle, A Fine and Private Place

In a Certain Way.

Haven — Mon, 21 Oct 2013 06:58:52 +0000

It’s that distinct way that wood smoke pummels into the mist

and the way the Sun fights to be regonized.

It’s that certain way the trees turn to golden reds

and hues of Ambers.

It’s that certain way the mud gets stuck in my boots

and the moist ground summons the fungus to the sky

and then back to its orgins.

It’s that certain way the fog dances across the grassy plains.

It’s that certain way that the Elk rut

and you can hear their bugle calls

over the hushed quiet of fall.

It’s that certain way when you know the white blanket will come

and engulf us soon

and the wood smoke

and Hearths will be the only thing we know.

And in a certain way I give thanks

because in a certain way-

this is what it is all about.

All the petty and the trite

gets buried in this scene-

the mists rising above the waters like ghosts.

It is these ghosts I give up now,

an offering of smoke.