Rainbow flowering cornfield

The leaders in the field of my Painted Mountain rainbow dream harvest are tasseling! The plants are only about two feet high: that's knee high to me, though there's a lot of variation.

Definitely not your genetically modified, hybridized commercial field corn this. Each plant has its individuality, own nature and characteristic. Most are single stemmed, then the occasional one comes up  two stemmed from the ground. There's been no breeding for regularity to make mechanization of harvest easier nor any of those other laboratory manipulations which have denatured our food in the apparently developed world today.

Just as I had read, they are tasseling variegated. The colours in the tassels are in accord with the varied colours of stem.

Here's where, like a sailor on the salt sea, we do the prayers for the blessing of a fair wind on them the next few weeks. Good pollination is what I am looking for.

Despatches from the dread journey

And on the third day I washed them. Yes. Contrary to popular belief one does wash dreadlocks. Contrary also to popular opinion that one should leave new-borns a week or two before washing.

There was wax I needed to remove. My patience with the greasy pot scourer head ran out around about the first day I had off work.

I had never intended to have wax used in the process. I employed the stylists at a local salon to do the backcombing.  The sectioning of the scalp and the backcombing which provides the foundation was all I was asking of the appointment.

However salon stylists use "product". Their whole business is geared towards having a client walk out with a finished "do". So after the appointment was made and before I kept it, my hired beautician went out and bought a dreadlock starter kit. Online, I am betting though I didn't ask her the details. I have  spent a lot of time online myself, researching dreadlocks over the past seven years. I have seen just the kind of kits which she fetched from under the counter. As an aside, how very typical of this culture to have a kit for anything one wants to do. One can purchase a little goodie bag with instructions, the materials and the tools needed to do just about anything.

Authentic dreadlocks are a process, a commitment of one to three years, not an immediate gratification, finished in a single session do at all. There are fake felted extensions which can be attached, or perms which can be applied for the immediate gratification crowd. That was not my objective. I was not going for a look, rather undertaking a journey.

I understand, on the other hand, a salon professional's need for finished do. And to apply goo.

So I allowed waxing knowing full well that I could and would remove it at my earliest convenience. Sometimes retreat is the better strategy.

There are other ways one can go about this process. It seems that friends and lovers are most often the dread makers.

Those familiars who would spend the time needed to begin my dreads are scattered across the planet, their touch ethereal, contact virtual at best. I walk the stranger route in the corporeal. Earth energy flows.

So Sunday I mixed up a big bowl of hot water, bicarbonate of soda and essential oils and dunked the waxy babes. Then I used Dr Bronners soap for good measure. I gained a much softer mane, a lot of loose tendrils and hope for a future with this hair management choice. Yes it does not look nearly as much like a finished product as the waxed do I left the salon with, but it feels a lot better, softer and way more natural. And my hats and caps fit again.

Now if only I could shake the feeling that there's a piñata burro looking over my shoulder as I work.

Done! My very own 50 shades of grey all the way back to my African roots

It took 4 hands 7 hours to birth 89 baby dreadlocks from my 25 inch cascade of fifty-something shades of grey mantle. What a lot of backcombing! The sitting was stressful. A whole long sock was knitted during the arduous process.

I feel like a lion, liberating the wild mane from the restraint of the neatening scarf worn for work. Riding the Antelope bicycle into the sunset or the base of Flowery Trail, there isn't road enough for the wild energy of these babes let loose. Zzzt zzzt zzzt go the tyres on the tarmac.  Swoooooosh we sweep down Main street. The cool air is a blessing. With temps hovering around 100 all week and the library a/c broken all week as well,  it has been a sizzling time for all.

The challenge now: will these scratchy, brillo pad textured babes bring out the locked in dread in the small, rural community in which I am currently embedded? Ha! The stone has been thrown - now to wait, watching the ripples spread.

Of course the whole town already seems to know - judging by those who wandered through the salon to gawk during the process. Then later there were the people came into the library "just to see your hair". Yes, well, small communities. Get used to it. No privacy.

On the other hand I also have the feeling, after two years here, that there are a whole lot of individuals around these parts. This makes everyone pretty tolerant of difference. On the whole. Yes we have the stereotype of small and conservative which goes along with rural. I would challenge this, though. There might be a handful of vocal complainypants who will grouch about anything and everything, feeling threatened by everything they don't know, those whose gods are fearful ones are especially articulate in the negative comments department, but most members of the community are tolerant and genuinely interested in that which they have not encountered before. Especially when it is thrust before them.

My biggest oh no! discovery of the journey so far: I need new hats and visors. Nothing I have fits this New Big Hair. The amount of cycling and paddling I do a visor of some sort is essential.  Later on the winter dilemma of hat to keep the snow off will crop up. For now it is sunshade I am pondering.

Farewell librarian in a bun.

Hello Lionwoman! Durga calling.

The significant life: days of miracles and wonder

Driving over Flowery Trail for my phantom full moon paddle at Spirit Lake last week,  a feather tumbled in the wind on the side of the road. As soon as I could, I did a U turn to claim my prize. What a giveaway! About 15 inches of pristine wild turkey flight feather.

Things are about to get interesting. These are days of miracles and wonders.

The next day, as I emptied the library bookdrop, I was surprised to find a little green tree frog inside looking up at me. How she had escaped being crushed by other books tossed in, I do not know.

I only had the work p&s camera, but I fumbled a quick (blurry) pic. When I came to download, I noticed the words around the little water messenger: heal the essential. Signs and omens. Days of miracles and wonders indeed.

I was thinking about messages and how I would blog about these ones. Then I read this post in Threads of the Spiderwoman. Chickenskin! She even used the Paul Simon  reference which had been earworming me for days. Wheeee!

Dead fish, no phantoms: bucking the moon at Spirit Lake

There's a legend about Spirit Lake in northern Idaho which involves a phantom canoe at full moon. The backstory is quite juicy and tabloid-worthy involving a beautiful woman, arranged marriage, forbidden love, suicide and ghosts at full moon. Just the stuff I want to paddle into.

Summer is the only time for night paddles because hell and the lakes around here freeze over in the other seasons. A while back, when I first encountered the legend, I charted the warm weather moons and was pleased to see that the July full moon was on a day before a holiday. Plan! I could go across to Idaho, paddle into the silvery night and not worry about being sleepy for work the next day.

Weather had me looking skywards at the considerable amount of cloud around in the few days before, but the forecast, backed up by my personal expedition meteorologist in Boulder (thank you, TLS,  for professional support), indicated clearing. It was systems go for the venture.

Big disappointment in the paddling section. It was 3rd July - the night before Burn Fest where the locals support the Chinese economy by putting match to a whole lot of money in explosives. They call it celebrating independence and quote from John Adams writing to wife Abigail in 1776 in support:

"It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more."


At Spirit Lake they started their solemnization ceremonies early by throwing explosives into the lake. For sport I am guessing,  since I do not think that the fish were illuminated.

I didn't even take the canoe off the roof. No way am I exposing my Little Yoni to that kind of culture.

Pretty wild flowers bloomed on the edge of the lake: wild pink roses and a sweet scented white blossom. An intriguing boxy houseboat was moored at the jetty.

Walking a bit along the shore trail I found dead fish, used condoms, and all manner of other human and vegetable detritus. Obviously those who frequent this spot do not have respect or love for the earth. Though I guess I am pleased to note that some of them are employing breeding inhibition practices.

I distracted myself a while with light on water which helped offset the ugliness but the constant explosions from the fools on the bridge were still disturbing.

Back up in town I am looking for supper at least. The best I find is a pizza with way more cooked cheese than I like to eat in a year. Along with explosives, northern Idaho likes their meat. Oh yes! When the Books and Coffee shop with those amazing fresh baked New York bagels is closed, Spirit Lake town is not the best place for vegetarians, let alone vegans.

An old Mercury Comet looking like a hearse with a fiery paint job, had plates which said it all: "Drive it like you stole it". Sums up an attitude I had found down at the lake. Driving the environment like they stole it. Uh huh. Uh huh.

That flag you pledge allegiance to is looking a little threadbare. Seems like rock is winning this round while the scissors ran away with the paper.

But oh! the delicate blushing pink dream of a dogwood discovered. What loveliness blooms in that little park alongside the pizza place.

The way back over the Flowery Trail pass with full moon was a dream of serenity: ethereal. Though I was disappointed about the paddle I did manage to salvage some experiences. Sometimes all it takes is letting go of attachment to the plan one thinks one has made.

Click on pics to open slideshow window

Then of course there was the turkey feather gift, but that is for another post.

Full Buck Moon: Guru Purnima

The full moon in Capricorn came early in July and hung around a while, saturating night after night in silvery light

The full Buck Moon is so called because it comes at a time when the buck deer are getting their velvety new antlers in the part of the world where I currently have my camp. It is also variously the Hay Moon, Thunder Moon, Mead Moon or Guru Purnima for Hindu peoples. Hare Om!

Jubiliant June in the garden: more mommy blogging

June. It rained. A lot.

The garden did what gardens do when it is warm(er) and wet. It grew. Almost every morning I harvested kale leaves for my breakfast smoothie. Thanks to Sago Natural Sylvia's secret recipe insect spray, the pesky mosquitoes left me alone. A bit.

For a month that started out with rain, snow and below freezing temperatures, the developments were not bad.

The Painted Mountain corn babies are over a foot high and still showing subtle variations in colour.

Way down on the back boundary with the Shanghai Cherry, there's an arum lily (in memoriam) spiraling like a sea shell. Some tiny, brave spears of blue lavender poke upward from a plant liberated out of a pot where it overwintered on the porch, not looking very happy through the long frigid months, but obviously not giving up entirely. Hopefully it will fare better with roots in real earth now.

Snow peas bud and flower a delicately green veined white, their tendrils reaching, grabbing, grasping, binding the garden together in clumps with their clingy neediness. Note to self: built trellises next year and maybe the peas will leave the arugula and kale to grow in peace.

Heritage Royal Purple bush beans germinate, holding up their heart shaped leaves for love or sunshine,which might just be the same thing. In a garden journal.

Blue June sunset with turtle

It was a blue June sunset, almost the last of the month, when a honu, a sea turtle, swam into my sky. In the east, over the mountain. Signs and omens again: steering a course not by stars, but cloud messengers.

Navigation through life is sometimes as nebulous as water vapour stained by reflected light.

Staycation Saturday: domestic bliss

Contrary to popular opinion and my own inclinations, sometimes I stay at home on a Saturday. In late June there was one of these days. The Saturday before the Dash of Salt Run to Soap Lake, in fact.

A leisurely morning was had spying on a fluffy Northern Flicker youngster learning to bathe, doing laundry, yoga, cooking up a batch of baked falafels and dusting the household altars, amongst other things.

In the afternoon I took the Antelope bicycle for a ride out on the south western edge where I admired the blues and lush greens (thanks to an abundantly rainy June) and got myself a perspective on the little town resting at the foot of a mountain under little puffy clouds.

Sometimes it is important to step back a little. Take a breath. Be still and look from the outside in.

In the evening there was just enough cloud around to flare into lovely peachy fire at sunset. That's June and half a year done, I was thinking.

A side order of local monsters

It was a slow, stormy day at the fireworks stands when I stopped by after filling up Sunday at SpoKo Fuel, the Spokane Indian tribe's petrol station on the edge of town.

There's more craziness and competing handmade billboards down Ford way on HWY 231, and on the rez, but here Godzilla rules as the Wellpinit Warriors do their duty to ensure that we are able to blow ourselves up in style. Bigger is better in the fireworks, gunpowder and sign making departments it seems.

Who needs Disneyland when we have our own local monsters? Godzilla rules! Thunderously. Every foundation rocking explosive night is testament to it of late.

Happy Birthday America and Happy Anniversary to You Know Who.