Charming of the Plough and Potting Sheds

The residents of Owl Island perform traditional agricultural rituals as a part of their celebrations on February 14th. This it the time when grain crates are offered for the soil’s fertility, and Father Sky and Mother Earth are invoked to that end.

The SS Vulcania is approaching White Owl Island, in time for this agrarian festival, a festival that is of import for those who are keen to ensure that the seeds they have sown are nurtured by the earth.

When you embark at Owl Island meditate upon your dependence on the soil, and, along with others crumble upon the soil a piece of bread (natural or homemade of course). As you crumble the bread call upon  the Land Spirits to heal the Earth and to keep it safe from harm. This ceremony will be of particular import to Victorians who have just witnessed the most savage razing of the earth as a result of destructive wild fires.

A potluck dinner will follow the ritual. Passengers of the SS Vulcania and guests  are encouraged to bring a dish to share and are welcome to bring offerings for the spirits who watch over Owl Island.

After the potluck dinner there will be a Gala Costume Ball in honour of White Owl.

Responses to the Festival should be posted on White Owl Island.

Charming the Plough

It seems like everybody and his dog is going to the Charming of the Plough festivities. The queues to get down the two gangplanks went on forever. I don’t really do queues, so I went to the Jolly Roger for half an hour while the crowds thinned down. I’ve decided to let Ted borrow my aura glasses while I’m at White Owl Island. I know he’ll look after them. It made him very happy and he even gave me a free lemonade.

The queues had shortened considerably by the time I got back, so I joined the shortest one. I noticed that many people were going ashore already attired in their fancy dress. Mine was still in the cabin. I was going to change after the ceremony.

Once on terra firma we were formed into groups of twenty by guides and taken to a clearing in the trees to make our offerings of bread. There were stone altars covered in soil at intervals around the clearing. As one group completed their offering, another took its place. It was all very efficiently organised.

When our turn came we all filed past the altar and crumbled our bread upon the soil. There was more bread than soil by the time we got there. We were each given a card with the ritual prayer written on it, and we formed a semi-circle around the altar and chanted:

From the soil of Mother Earth
We take nurture and sustenance.
We give back to her
Some of her bounty,
And ask for kindness and safety
For the coming year
For the earth and all its peoples.

After this we were directed to a larger clearing – an arena really – with seating all around it. This was where the plough ceremony was to take place.

It began with a parade of shamans around the edge of the arena. They were a very colourful bunch, dressed in a many-hued, finely woven cloth and sporting beads and feathers. Noisy too. There were drums and horns and rattles and those not equipped with musical instruments were singing. Well, it wasn’t really singing, more a variety of drones. It was all quite cacophonous anyway, and not very melodic, but fortunately it didn’t last long. One of them carried a staff and a large, decorated rattle. I think he was the Grand Poobah of the shamans as he conducted the rest of the proceedings.

After some blasts from a long horn, a beautiful Clydesdale horse entered the arena pulling a plough, guided by another shaman. The horse and plough made a straight furrow to the middle of the arena and then stopped. Seeds were scattered into the furrow and covered over. The chief shaman shook his rattle over it and spoke some words in a language I didn’t understand. The horse was then adorned with a halter made from woven corn stalks and got the rattle treatment, and a carrot. The whole ensemble then did a figure of eight – to signify infinity; the ploughshare was then raised and they all left the arena following the horse.

It was announced over the P.A. system that the Potluck Dinner would commence at 6.00 pm, followed by the Gala Ball, and all dishes for the dinner should be taken to the Grand Marquee before 5.30pm.

I made my way back to the ship to change, and get my dish of cauliflower cheese for the dinner. All in all a pleasant couple of hours.

Scribblen Paint

The Potting Sheds of White Owl Island

In former days, estates with greenhouses always had a potting room, a place to coax plants from seedlings to strength, until they were ready for the garden. Potting sheds are filled with pots of all sizes and shapes, right at hand, on shelves, ready to be grabbed.

In the potting shed, when seedlings are just starting, gardeners carefully tend their treasures. From the first flurry of spring and on through the summer, a potting shed is the ideal locus for the muddy fingered work of transplanting young sprouts to bigger pots and dividing perennials. Unlike the shed you store your garden equipment in, the potting shed is a place where one can garden happily even on the rainiest of days.  As days warm and containers need to be planted the shed becomes what it is – an essential part of the garden.

While I was on Owl Island I took the time to visit the whimsical potting sheds at Owl House, the estate that is kept alive by volunteers who come to work and tend their special seeds. These potting sheds are not the norm. Here you can watch ideas germinate, grow and develop.

Scribble and Paint Visits the Potting Sheds

After yesterday’s noise and frivolity, I thought it would be soothing to spend some quiet ‘alone’ time.  There was an information booklet about The Potting Shed on the notice board and I had a read of it and decided that it would be just the thing.  I love growing things and I find gardening very relaxing.

I grabbed my hat, my sunnies and a basket and headed off.  The steward on duty at the gangplank told me that the way was well signposted and it was about a half-hour’s walk.  He pointed me to the start of the path, and true enough it was very well marked.  It was just a little track through the woods, wide enough for two people.  I met two or three people heading in the other direction and they were all carrying potted plants.  Can’t be far, I thought.

When I reached the shed there was a sign out the front;

This is a place of solitude – please, respect it.
If the door is closed, it is occupied. Please remain outside
until the visitor leaves. Thank you.

Well, the door was closed, so I plonked myself down on the seats provided and spent my waiting time studying the shed.  It’s a little stone structure with a wooden, farmhouse door; to the side of the door is a window and it has a thatched roof.   It’s built on a stone-paved, raised area and, naturally, is surrounded by plants.  I spy a stone rabbit guarding the entrance, too.  On the side facing me is a delightful, wicker addition – like a bay window – that also has a thatched roof.  I see a chimney, so this would be a very cosy hideout in the winter.  I sat daydreaming for about fifteen minutes before a young girl opened the door and skipped down the steps.  ‘These are for my mum,’ she said.  ‘They’re her favourite!’, and she skipped off through the woods with a huge smile on her face.

My turn!  I stepped inside and closed the door.  There was a stack of small, terracotta pots on the floor and a bin full of potting mix.  It had that lovely, earthy, musty smell with undertones of Blood and Bone, and I took a a few appreciative deep breaths through my nose.  There was a shelf along two walls, holding a row of wooden boxes.  Where the sun shone through the window onto some of them, they were labelled with words like Love, Laughter, Health, Healing, Success, Kindness and Remembrance.  Curious, I lifted down one of the boxes.  It contained a variety of seed packets.  I selected several and put them on the bench.

Over in the dark corner, where the sun didn’t shine, the boxes were covered in dust and cobwebs and had words like Revolution, Discontent, Anger, Conflict and Misery.  Thank goodness they didn’t get disturbed very often.

I wanted to give a little living gift to some of the friends I’d made on the ship, so I lined up my little pots and filled them with potting mix and carefully planted the seeds.  I couldn’t see a watering-can or a tap anywhere, but I eventually saw the goatskin waterbag hanging on the back of the door.  It was marked ‘Tears of the Goddess’.  I lifted it down with a bit of difficulty.  It was quite high up and rather weighty.  I sprinkled a few drops into each pot and then put it back behind the door.  By the time I had turned back, tiny green shoots were appearing in the pots. ‘Well, I never did!’ I said out loud.  (Some people call it talking to yourself, but I call it vocal thinking.)

I attached a little card to each pot, and placed them all in my basket.

For Heather a dark pink rose meaning ‘Thank you’ for all the work she does for the Soul Food Cafe and the SS Vulcania, and also a Zinnia (thoughts of absent friends) in remembrance of her beloved husband.
For Rosy, Wisteria (youth and poetry) for she has both.
For John and his wife, and Senua I’ve planted Pear Blossom for hope and also Peony for health and healing. For Vi and also Ted I’ve chosen the Blue Periwinkle for early friendship, and for Sally and Colleen I’ve planted Myrtle for love, mirth and joy simply because they are things all of us need in our lives.

My basket is packed solid and is quite heavy. I would love to take back pots for everyone, but it’s not physically possible. The spirit’s willing, but the flesh is weak!

I opened the door and gave a big smile to the man sitting waiting.  ‘You’ll love your time in there,’ I said and wandered off down the path lugging my basket full of pots.

I placed my little gifts outside the cabin doors, and went off to dinner.

* The meanings of the flowers obtained from: http://www.iflorist.com/en/gifts/meaning/

Scribblen  Paint

Celtic Sea Visits the Potting Shed

Each time I visited the Potting Shed, the waiting line to enter was at least five deep. Being an impatient person, and wanting to take in all White Owl Island had to offer before we departed, I opted out of the line and promised myself to come back when it wasn’t so busy. Additionally, I wanted to savor my experience once inside. If I entered knowing people were anxiously awaiting their turns, I ‘d feel pressed to finish quickly – much like those scenes from the telephone booths of old.

So, this morning – if that’s what you call the time before the sun rises – with sleep no longer an option, I chose to make the trek to the shed, hoping no one else on the ship had two cups of caffeinated coffee just before midnight. Thank goodness I remembered where I hid my walnut – the gift from E – because I needed its tiny flashlight to guide me to my destination. Amazingly, its miniscule light magnified as if the sun shone on the path in front of me. I had no trouble locating the now unoccupied potting shed.

As I entered the thatched hut from the left side, my light still guiding my way, I saw a line of moss-covered pots on a single shelf; I sneezed at their smell of abandoned projects and forgotten memories. I wondered if guests were intended to recycle these discarded pots, or if anyone ever returned the vessels in which great ideas grew. It just seemed as if my prospects might be doomed from the start if I tried to develop my project in a container with such a negative aura. Then I heard what I thought was a “pssst” from the other end of the room. Certain I was here alone (as that’s what the rules required), I attributed the sound to the wind, but crossed the room nonetheless.

My light unveiled a second wall, where vases and pots of all different shapes, colors, and sizes lined the shelves. A warmth radiated from them, and they emitted an uncommon, but not offensive aroma, of something strong and promising. Unlike the options of the first wall, here I felt like a squirrel in a nut shop, so many choices! Should I limit myself to the smaller pots – knowing the ability to transplant always existed – but worrying that I might be setting my sites too small from the onset, or choose the larger pot – at the same time knowing how overwhelmed (which eventually translates into discouraged) I’d be by my need to fill all its space. So, as usual, I compromised and selected a medium-sized pot. Is that what’s called the Goldilock’s complex?

I lifted the pot from the shelf, surprised by its lightness. As I turned the vase in my hands, admiring its green-leaf pattern, I nearly dropped it when I saw the backside. Imprinted within a central leaf was my name, celticsea. How could that be? I placed the piece back on the shelf, and tried to step away from the wall. But like a magnet, I was pulled back toward the shelf and my hands involuntarily retrieved the mystical pot. What could I do, but take it. Obviously someone meant it for me.

For the next several hours I sat in the corner of the potting shed with the vase in my lap. I really wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen next. Did ideas simply start to grow like Perennials after the spring thaw? Was there a magical soil created just for this type of vessel, that contained the right mix of imagination, incentive and opportunity? Was there a manual somewhere on Owl Island that could answer these questions? A sudden knock on the door interrupted my thinking, and signaled the end of my visit. Considering the caffeine had worn off, no lightning strikes of creative genius seemed to be forthcoming, and I was ready for a lengthy morning nap, the intrusion was a welcome one.

The brightness of the morning blinded me as I walked out of the potting shed, my knees a little stiff from sitting on the ground for so long. I tucked my tiny flashlight back into its fitted compartment (making sure no one saw the walnut in the process). Two people stood in line at the door, and I saw a few more prospective visitors walking down the path toward me. “Good luck,” I said to the man who entered the building next. He just scowled and pushed past me. (I secretly hoped he never moved past the first wall.) And then I cradled my newfound pot in my left arm, and headed off for the cruise ship.

Celtic Sea

Chocolates and Deck Training

When the horns of the SS Vulcania sounded and it was time to leave the Island of the Temple People passengers, upon returning to their cabins found hat le Enchanteur has left a surprise for them. She has left a special box of chocolates, to savour as the ship heads towards the next destination.  The chocolates have led to inspired writing.

Out of the Chocolate Box by Gail Kavanagh

I dipped into Le Enchanteur’s box of chocolates and I pulled out – my thumb. I remembered promising Lori that I would tell the story of my shot thumb. So here, out of the chocolate box of childhood memories is a tale you may think is highly unlikely, but is in fact quite true – any circus performer and traveller could tell you even weirder stuff…

How I Got Shot in the Thumb is one of those stories that gets trotted out every now and then. The kids used to love hearing it, and whenever they made too much fuss about something trivia, I would give them the Thumbs Up. Litanies of injury would come to abrupt halt with the words, “Of course, there was the time Mum got shot…”

As many Foodies know, I grew up as a traveller, and my parents were circus performers. My father was a sharpshooter and my mother his human target – and as circus kids do, when I was old enough I joined the act.

There were a few accidents but never with the guns until one Friday in Scotland in 1960, during the second house. I was standing at the target board, holding one of the small plaster disks by its matchstick handle between my finger and thumb. It was one of the simplest parts of the act – Dad shattered the disc with a bullet and the most I had to worry about was being stung by a bit of flying plaster. Except that, this time, it felt more as if my thumb had been hit with a large, dull hammer. I stared at it in surprise. There was blood pouring out.

One of the bullets had only half the charge, and dropped as it was fired, enough distance to go clean through my thumb and into the target board. I was hurried back to the bus where Dad examined my thumb. There was a small neat hole near the nail, where the bullet had entered. The back of my thumb was a bloody, ragged mess.
One of the locals gave us the address of the local doctor and I set off with Dad, both of us with coats thrown on over our costumes.

We found the doctor’s house, after a fair walk, and knocked on the door. The Doctor’s wife opened it and stared at us as if we were a couple of escaped lunatics.

“We’re from the circus,” Dad explained. “My daughter has had an accident.”

Seeing my hand, and the blood soaked cloth it was wrapped in, the woman ushered us inside and called for the doctor. He turned out to be lovely old man with a white moustache and a manner to charm the most stubborn of patients into submission. My hand was beginning to throb by now, and I wasn’t too keen on having the cloth removed. It had stuck to the wound, and we had to soak it off. Once my thumb was in the open he examined it with interest. Then he looked at me.
“I think the young lady should have a cup of tea,” he said. “About six sugars should do the trick.”

As he cleaned up my wound he listened to Dad’s tales of our life on the road. From his manner, you would think he treated Indian squaws for gunshot wounds every day. His wife, now past her first shock, was just as charming. She brought the tea, with a couple of biscuits, and joined in the conversation while the doctor expertly bandaged my thumb.

“I think there’s not much point in stitches,” he said, “since the bullet has blown out the tissue at the back. The best thing you can do is keep it clean, soak it in saline solution every night, and let the tissue rebuild itself. Come back tomorrow and I’ll have another look at it and change the dressing.”

We stayed for another cup of tea, long enough for the doctor to make sure I was recovered from shock – which explained the very sugary tea I had been given – and arrived back at the circus in time for the evening show. I had to hold the disc in the other hand, but I was thankful – Mum’s part of the act meant she had to hold the disc on her head, so if a bullet had to drop two inches, it was best that it dropped into my thumb.

I visited the doctor twice again before we left Beith and he was well pleased with the progress I was making. As he had said, the back of my thumb was in too much of a mess for stitches, but with repeated soakings and clean dressing, it began to heal over, though it left a permanent scar that has considerably faded now.

Deck Training for Pythian Games

The word music itself is derived from the Muses, the legendary goddesses of Delphi. Greek mythology is rich in stories related to music. One of the most well known myths concerns Orpheus, the son of the Thracian King, Oeagrus and Calliope, one of the nine Muses. Mythology tells us that Apollo presented him with a lyre and the Muses taught him to use it so that he not only enchanted wild beast, but made trees and rocks move from their places to follow the sound of his music. At Zone in Thrace a number of ancient mountain oaks are still standing in the pattern of one of his dances, just as he left them.

After a visit to Egypt, Orpheus joined the Argonauts, with whom he sailed to Colchis, his music helping them to overcome many difficulties. There are many accounts of how he died. One says that Zeus killed him with a thunderbolt for divulging divine secrets. Whatever, the Muses tearfully gathered his remains and buried them at the foot of Mount Olympus where the nightingales now sing sweeter than any where else in the world.

The Muses delighted in feasts and the pleasure of song. At one such contest the daughters of Pierus defied the Muses in a contest of song and, having been defeated, were turned into magpies, greenfinches, ducks and other birds. Likewise, the Sirens, who were daughters of one of the Muses competed with them and lost. The Muses proceeded to pluck out their feathers and made crowns out of them for themselves.

The Muses discovered letters and the combination of these we call poetry. These letters were used to celebrate victory. Polymnia is so named because by her great praises she brings distinction to writer’s whose works have won for them immortal fame. Perhaps it was Polymnia who crowned the Poet Laureate at the Pythian Games which took place at Delphi every four years. The festival not only involved athletic contests but included musical competitions and drama. Unlike our society which had turned sports figures into icons, in ancient Greece there was no divorce between intellect and muscle. Each was viewed to be a necessary quality of the perfect man. Pindar, a Boeotian poet made it his professional business to celebrate the athletic contests in music and song. When a city was victorious it rejoiced in poem and song. Thus these games furnished poets, musicians and authors the best opportunities to present their productions to the public, and the fame of the victors was diffused far and wide.

Homer was clearly present at a number of games and his reports provide us with the most accurate account of what happened during this time. There was a contest in which the fight between the god and the monster was represented; the prize a garland of laurel, which was Apollo’s tree. The story goes that Apollo had fallen passionately in love with Daphne, the mountain nymph, a priestess of Mother Earth, the daughter of the river Peneius in Thessaly. He pursued her all over the countryside but just as he was about to overtake her Daphne cried out to Mother Earth who, in the nick of time spirited her away to Crete, where she became known as Pasiphae. Mother Earth left a laurel-tree in her place, and from its leaves Apollo made a wreath to console himself. It is this wreath that is placed on the heads of the victorious.

After defeating the Python Apollo took over from Themis the neighbouring oracle of Delphi, which was in historical times the most famous oracle in the Greek world. It was after this that Apollo instituted the Pythian games, which took place at Delphi and involved a reenactment of the slaying of the Python.

The Pythian games fire my imagination because they permit me to participate. As someone who has neither the coordination or the body to engage in physical exercises I have never been able to conceive of a time when I might be able to enter myself in any sporting events. I am prepared to move mountains to do whatever is required for me to enter the writing events.

The Greeks insisted that poetry was a form of craft, of practiced skill. To prepare for the Pythian games we need to practice our skill and become deft wordsmiths.

Let the training begin on the deck of the SS Vulcania: Check out the mad deck activities and then use the Pythian Games forum to participate and contribute your entry.

If you are not a registered USER of the Pythian Games simply send in a request to the group to join and we will sign you in.

On Being A New Passenger

Late last night, in a flurry of anticipation, I was teleported on board the S.S. Vulcania.  With my homeland in turmoil I was reluctant to leave but friends urged to take the ticket they had arranged for me.

‘A cruise,’ they had cried. ‘You must go Almurta. It is just what you need. Take some time away to reflect, to dream, to heal. Go now before your health deteriorates further. We will contact you immediately if you are needed here. Remember you can beteleported home in an instant. Go now. Gaze upon new horizons and heal.’

And so I did as I was bid though the suffering of the people around me rang in my ears and my heart was heavy was their pain. Against the back drop of the current terrors that lay waste my homeland my own health troubles have paled into insignificance yet they weigh me down. My soul feels weary. Perhaps this cruise will restore me and I will return to my ravaged home invigorated and more able to give of myself to others.

Now as dawn breaks over White Owl Island a gentle light flows into the cabin where I find myself. The exultant songs of birds greeting the new day sounds in the distance. I fling open my porthole to hear it more fully and a rush of salt laden air fresh with undertones of wild heather and lavender rushes into my cabin. I breathe deeply.

In the corridors beyond my door I can hear voices abuzz with news of White Owl Island. I hear tell of old potting sheds where the seeds of new ideas can be germinated. ‘Come, let us seek them,’ the voices call to one another. ‘Let us too plant new ideas in the fertile soil.’ For a moment I think of joining them but fall back on my couch heavy with the realisation that it has been months since I had a new idea. Or perhaps indeed, it has been years. Either way, I have no seeds to plant.

From somewhere comes a whisper that perhaps there is a Temple of Solace on the island. The name captures my imagination and I strain to hear more of this mythic place. It remains though, only a whisper, a suggestion of a possibility. Still something inside me has stirred and I decide to go in search of it. Wrapping my midnight blue cloak of protection around me, I zip up the opening and pull the hood tight around my face. The amulets and talismans I always carry are safely hid beneath its folds. Drawing upon an invisibility spell I make my way off the ship. As usual the spell is only partially effective and I feel people moving towards as if to speak. ‘Later, later,’ I will them, ‘for now I need to be alone.’ My body language is far more effective than my pathetic attempts at spell making and the people move away with a shrug of their shoulders.

Once on land the penetrating gaze of the Lemurian Warriors rips through my faulty defence shield. I mention the name of the hostess, The Enchantress, and they allow me to pass. Clear of them. I follow instinct and climb a steep, over grown path away from the docks. Around me a luxuriant tangle of herbs and flowering plants perfumes the air. Along the edge of the path large chunks of rose quartz glisten in the early morning light. The breathy sound of a flute wafts through the air. The player is hidden from me. My muscles, weakened by sickness, ache as I ascend the hillside but the sweet magic of the trail beckons me onward. ‘Almurta, Almurta,’ the breeze seems to murmur. ‘Come hither now.’

I round a bend and enter into a wide clearing where stone benches have been strewn with soft mounds of cushions. Gratefully I ease my tired body down. The seat I have chosen looks out to the sea. The horizon line merges into a foreverness of blueness as sea meets sky. I become aware that the air around me has a pristine quality, a lightness I have never experienced before. It is as if it has been washed through the light of crystals to come now to me absolutely cleansed of any negativity, utterly uncontaminated by any taint of sadness, of fear or of anger. Pure. Clean. Filled with Spirit.

Time passes without me being aware of its passage. My thoughts have stilled. There is nothing I desire. I simply AM within the light. My soul uncurls, stretches and opens to the possibility of healing. The faintest whisper of a new idea comes to me. The idea of regeneration. The idea of rebirth. I know where I sit is a way station on the path the Temple of Solace. I realise there are still paths for me to travel before I enter that magical citadel yet this place I have been drawn to has given me the sense that the Temple does exist. That I will somehow find it. First though, on the morrow, I will seek out the potting sheds and plant the seeds of my newfound ideas.

When I return to my cabin the urge to make art that has been dormant within for so long reawakens. I pull out the few art materials I have bought on board with me and spend the afternoon making tiny paintings of birds and plants I saw along the pathway. My earlier desire to avoid my fellow passengers dissolves as I become intrigued with the possibility of sharing my art work with them. Already I have noticed the ship is filled with the paintings, drawings and photographs of our hostess and of fellow passengers. How, I wonder, do they post it so that others can see it?

From Almurta’s Cabin