Bushbabies and Bananas

© 2017 I am a cat stalking along city rooftops independent and free nobody owns me I am a swan dreaming gently in the pale gold reeds at the lake’s edge sheltering for the winter I am a dragon soaring high overheard roaring flames to protect Her land I am a deer trembling in the misty purple heather I quiver, every fibre of my being alert to the sound of Him coming through the deepening Dusk Inchnadamph, Assynt, Scotland, 2002 With all of my heart and soul with every atom and particle along every string and wave in the multiverse I love the King Stag I feel His love in the heat of the sun warming me I see His power in the strength of the eagle’s wing as He glides overhead my heart breaks for His nobility as He dips His antlers to Her full light rising a pale circle like a fat dew drop on a green leaf in the deep forest I am a spider spinning my web new and glistening each day trying to tell Him in a different way how much I love H...

Picture Credit:  Dhillon Deviant Art In every ancient culture the People have a Sleeping Hero - Legend promises he will arise when needed to defend the land When the danger is greatest… It seems pretty dark right now so I wrote this... Lady and Lord of the North and Earth of the caves of death, and the Soul’s rebirth of mountain peaks reaching up to the sky and rocky chasms where diamonds lie please grant us your Presence and power Lady and Lord of the East and Air of gentle breezes and winds that tear of the breath of Spirit upon which eagles glide and blows pictures with clouds in the deep blue sky please grant us your Presence and power Lady and Lord of the South and Fire of the spark of life and the witches’ pyre of dancing flames and devouring burning Strength forged in the flames from tortured yearning please grant us your Presence and power Lady and Lord of the West and Water of healing wells and cleansing lighter of underground ...

Wow that was a bit of an emotional trip back to Santa Maria, Mozambique last week.  In October 2013 I left, after ten years there, and returned to South Africa.  Luckily the bay was calm on the way there.  (NOT the return trip). Maputo Skyline Dhow Mr Dick Nhonguane Inhaca island in the background Meeting with The Boss - Nkosi Zacarias Nhonguane Love the licence plate Sandbanks at low tide Catching up with my dear friend Abel, now in his 80s Beach Bar

Today I met with Prince Mangosuthu Buthelezi, President of the Inkatha Freedom Party. It's the third time I have had the privilege but the first time he brought me to serious (secret) tears. I had asked him a question about his memories of lions, and if increasing urbanisation of his people had somehow bought a disconnection from Nature... a kind of spiritual vacuum.  But the magnitude of his answer only really hit me when I was back on the very windy 15th floor rooftop parking of the Royal Hotel. He had explained to me, briefly and gently, that it was very difficult to see lions during the years of apartheid because the game reserves were exclusively for white people. And that the first time he saw a lion was as a trophy in the United States! I cried into the hot wind and watched the harbor for a while from the rooftop with this sharp pain in my heart. I wondered if the extremely high levels of violence we experience in South Africa could come from this enfo...

© 2017 As the Light grew, the Dark became jealous, prowling at the edge of her Psyche, whispering, tempting, seducing with pretty promises and luring lies Feeding off the Shadow, hidden and hurting, twisting and tricking, until her Soul, distraught, torn apart by anguish, sought refuge in the Void, giving a last regretful look before turning away and stepping off the Edge into the Abyss There in the icy Wasteland Souls hover, frozen inside, they know that they died a long, long time ago Whilst outside, the human predators stalk and trap, and Gentle is shackled in Bluebeard’s castle, blindfolded, bound, lost in the mists, cold steel at her wrists, drifting in and out of the Real, keeping the panic at bay and the ghosts away, by withdrawing and refusing to feel Until one day all is flames and searing pain as her Soul awakens again, Realisation slams her head into the wall, and the Long Road back begins through the Underworl...

Who is dreaming me? that I’m tossing around on this black raging Sea? and I am journeying the Wastelands instead of home safe and warm, buffeted by gales and devoured by Storm, travelling the inner ways under dark-shadowed Sky,         Whose dream am I? This notion of Fate being woven by the Three, do we not have any say over our Destiny? who is singing my  so-called reality?        Who is dreaming Me? Are they objective, subjective, loving, stern? is the pain and the suffering the lessons we must learn? and who are the combatants of this war raging within?         Am I an Angel or Original Sin? March 2017 This quest to know Truth, these glimmers that tease me, through this Dark Night, this Long Night,        Who is dreaming Me? For surely we are the dream and Source is the Dreamer, We are the tapestry and Spirit is the Weaver, We are the Smile...

I look in the mirror and see… a child with a gun staring at me, a body lying in the sand killed by lies, and swarming with dirty, black flies and I know that part of me pulled the trigger; I look in the mirror and see… a starving dog bleeding in chains, and my hand is still holding the stone as I kneel in the dirt all alone; I look in the mirror and see… a woman bound, hurt, and enslaved, and I know that I have the key tucked away safely, I could set her free; I look in my mind and see all the anger, the doubts, and the fears I look in my heart and hear the whispers of a million dreams, secret hopes and unshed tears I turn back to the mirror and reach through the glass to the child, I have to love him better to have a fairer world, and I have to love him better because he is me. Christine Jordaan 05 May 2014 © 2017 WE NEED TO TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR THIS WORLD WE ARE CO-CREATING, WHETHER WE ARE DOING SO CONSCIOUSLY OR UNCONSCIOUSLY!

© 2017 When the forest falls silent of chattering birds and the Moon shines down on empty glades, when the Earth no longer shakes under the migrating herds and the trees are felled where the cheeky apes played          Will you cry for Me then? Maputo Special Reserve When the ice melts and grasslands turn to sand and the gentle humble giants no longer roam the barren lands, when the setting Sun is pining for the lion’s mighty roar and the sweet sad sound of the night jar’s call     Will you cry for Me then? When flamingoes no longer grace the mirror-like pans and no coucals joyfully herald approaching soft rains, when no Mahogany tree lends his shade from the burning Sun nor their pods crunch underfoot in late summertime     Will you cry for Me then? When the lonely wind carries just a memory of a mighty eagle soaring, and an echo of a dreamtime with soft water falling, and the ground is soaked in blood of humans...