Queen Mama Donna

The Queen’s Chronicles: SPOOKY GREETINGS

2009-10-31T22:40:00.000-07:00

I extend all manner of spooky greetings for these three days of the dead:

October 31 Halloween
November 1 All Saints Day
November 2 All Soul's Day or Dia de los Muertos.

Halloween descends from Samhain, the most significant holiday of the Celtic calendar. Being a pastoral people, the Celts counted their seasons according to the needs of their cattle and sheep, rather than the agricultural seasons that farmers might mark. The year was divided
into summer, when the herds are led our to graze, and winter, when they were brought back home again. Samhain, the day when the cows came home, was considered the first day of winter and also the first day of the new year.

Samhain exposes a crease in time. A fissure between summer and winter. Between the old year and the new. During this period, the dead have easy access to the living, and are likely to pay a visit. Just as the herds returned home to the warmth and security of the hearth in winter, so too, must the ghosts of the dead want to be cheered by familiar surroundings and loved ones. Certainly one owes the same hospitality to the ancestors as one gives to the animals!

For hundreds of years Christian missionaries tried without success to suppress Samhain and convert the Celts. In the eleventh century, Odilo, abbot at Cluny, claimed this heathen death feast for the Church. Hallow Tide, Holy Time, is a three-day feast -- All Hallowed Eve, All Hallowed, and All Saint's Day -- during which prayers are offered for Christian saints and souls, and only for Christian saints and souls. All others, those doomed souls whose burials were not consecrated in Christ, return to Earth on the eve of All Hallow’s to haunt the living. Menacing demons and flying witches along with their trusty black cat sidekicks, the persistent practitioners of the pagan religion, were also thought to be out and about and up to no good.

The potato famine of 1846 sent a million Irish immigrants to the United States. They brought with them their ancient Celtic customs, among them the feast of Samhain, which, as good Catholics, they now called Hallowe'en. This shadow festival of soul survival struck a responsive chord in the American people who instantly adopted it. To this day, Halloween is celebrated in some fashion by practically every person in North America. Sales of decorations and goodies rival the lucrative Christmas season.

We modern Americans rarely -- if ever -- think about death if we can possibly help it. We like to watch it on a big screen well enough, or perpetrate it on innocent populations overseas, but in real life, we just don't do death. Which is why I think Halloween has become so popular. It offers us a way to engage with our natural fascination with death in a way which is scary yet superficial. At Halloween we get to acknowledge our fear of death while still having a good time.

All best blessings,

xxQMD

To read about Halloween in more depth, check out my book, Celestially Auspicious Occasions: Seasons, Cycles & Celebrations at: www.DonnnaHenes.net

The Queen’s Chronicles: EARTH ATTACKS MOON

2009-10-08T20:31:00.000-07:00

“Of all the creatures who had yet walked on Earth, the Man-apes were the first to look steadfastly at the Moon. And though he could not remember it, when he was very young Moon-Watcher would sometimes reach out and try to touch that ghostly face rising above the hills. He has never succeeded, and now he was old enough to understand why. For first, of course, He must find a high enough tree to climb.”
- Arthur C. Clarke
2001 A Space Odyssey

Well, we Earthling Moon-Watchers built ourselves some really tall trees so that we could get to the moon. Rocket-propelled trees to carry us through space. And so we got to the moon.

No sooner did we land there than we set about trashing it. In the short time that we have been visiting our attendance upon it, we have left over twenty tons of debris — biological, atmospheric and manufactured — on the surface of our once pristine satellite.

Here are just some of things we left to litter Lady Luna: flags and dedication plaques from each moon mission, video cameras at the launch sites, sensitometers, the launch legs for the lunar module,
geologic tools, laser reflecting mirrors, the lunar rovers, a gold plated extreme ultraviolet telescope, a Tesco super market shopping cart, several Apollo backpacks, and three golf balls.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, we have reached new highs in our lows. At 7:30AM EDT on Friday, October 9, 2009 the Lunar Crater Observation and Sensing Satellite (LCROSS) mission, will fire a Centaur rocket into a crater at the South Pole of the moon which will act as a “heavy impactor” crashing into the lunar surface at nearly 6,000 mph sending a debris plume of 300,000 to 350,000 tons of material from the crater floor over 30 miles high.

A second sensor satellite will then drop down into this plume analyzing its contents in the hope of finding water. The result of this search will ultimately determine how realistic a full-time base on moon can be.
After the booster rocket hits the crater, blasting out a hole 90 feet deep, the shepherd will follow through the plume. After analyzing the plume, the shepherd craft will itself slam into the crater four minutes later, creating a second hole 60 feet deep.
According to NASA, this crash will be so big that we on Earth may be able to view the resulting plume of material it ejects with a good amateur telescope. The operation will unfold live on the Internet, as well as under the watchful eyes of dozens of amateur and professional astronomers and orbiting observatories, including the Hubble Space Telescope.

"Water on the moon has haunted us for years," said William Hartmann of the Planetary Science Institute. "It's all part of humanity's quest to understand our nearby cosmic environment." Yeah, right, understand it so we could rape it.

"Who (said the moon)
Do you think I am and precisely who
Pipsqueak, who are you

With your uncivil liberties
To do as you damn please?
Boo!

I am the serene
Moon (said the moon).
Don't touch me again.

To your poking telescopes,
Your peeking eyes
I have long been wise.

Science? another word
For monkeyshine.
You heard me.

Get down, little man, go home,
Back where you come from,
Bah!

Or my gold will be turning green
On me (said the moon)
If you know what I mean."
- Robert Francis

Yours with heartsick, heartfelt blessings for Mama Moon,

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: 911 EMERGENCY ALTAR

2009-09-11T08:20:00.001-07:00

September 11, 2001 found me far, far from home in a picture-book cabin on the south shore of the St. Lawrence River in Quebec. I had been making my long-anticipated way to the Gaspé when the horrific news crashed in upon my idyll, turning that perfect piece of paradise into a surreal hell, a fantastically gorgeous jail house cell from which I helplessly watched my city being destroyed live on Quebequois TV. “Etats Unis Attacqué,” it screamed. “C’est la Guerre.”

The phone lines were down. There was no internet access. The borders were sealed. I couldn’t call. I couldn’t help. I couldn’t come home. I couldn’t do anything. But I desperately needed to do something. Something positive. So I decided to create a memorial altar.

I borrowed my landlady Claudette’s large white plastic Our Lady who was normally employed to block the small dirt road that ran through Cabines Sur Mér property yard. I took Her to the edge of the land and placed Her among the ancient gray rocks bordering the great river running by. Wild rose bushes, heavy with hips, bowed at Her feet.

I just happened to have a bottle of holy water with me which I had collected only two days before at the pilgrimage site of Sainte Anne de Beaupré north of Quebec City on the opposite shore. This water has been associated with thousands of healings over the centuries. An important component of my Healing Waters of the World collection that I use it in my ceremonies. The original purpose of this trip was to refill my depleted supplies.

I had a small traveling candle that Miriam had given me a couple of years before. I had carried this with me in my toiletry bag on several trips to Paris, but had never felt moved to light it. I put the fire into a glass and set it next to the glass of healing water. In a third glass I arranged a bouquet of the yellow, white, and purple wild flowers growing in the earth around the cabin.

The fourth glass on my makeshift altar was a container of a different sort. At the bottom of my amulet bag I found a small reflective crystal that had been part of the sunrise to sunset vigil for peace that I had organized at the World Trade Center on the Summer Solstice 1999. It had absorbed the solar energy of the longest, lightest day of the year. I always carry it to help me see the light when times are dark.

I had a very long ritual relationship with the World Trade Center. For a quarter of a century it was my own private/public shrine, an urban Stonehenge for an urban shaman. Eighteen of my 26 Spring Equinox Egg Standing events have been held there. That means that 6480 eggs have stood on end in the shadow the Twin Towers. About double the estimated number of presumed dead.

On that black day I wondered about the fates of all of the building staff people whose names I never knew who have helped to set up and facilitate our public seasonal ceremonies over the years, and I prayed that they were all safe. And I prayed for the thousands of people in those buildings who have added their energy to our celebrations.

Also in the medicine bag was the dog tag with the peace symbol on it that Tommy Sullivan, R.I.P, wore when he was serving as an unwilling sailor during the Viet Nam War. Last, I offered a shriveling red rose hip that was going to seed. May the seeds of the rose be those that we sow.

I sat on the rocks all day, the African River Orisha Oshun by my side, washing my fears away.

I chanted and chanted for peace.

Chant for Peace.
Chant for Peace.
For Peace on Earth.
For Peace on Earth.
Chant for Peace.
Chant for Earth.
For Peace on Earth.
For Peace of Mind.
Chant for Peace.
There’s a Chance for Peace.
A Chance for a Change.
For a Change for Peace.
For a Change for Earth.
Chant for Earth.
Chant for Peace.
Chant for Us.
Chant for Peace.
There’s a Chance for Peace.
Still a Chance for Peace. S
till a Chance for Earth.
Still a Chance.
Still.

There is still a chance for a change. We must be that chance.

With best blessings for reverence, respect and peace,

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: BEGIN AGAIN

2009-09-09T19:35:00.000-07:00

Fall always feels like New Year to me. It carries so much more significance than does January 1. The first crisp hint of a chill in September always shakes me out of my summer lethargy, wakes me, makes me more alert. It focuses and concentrates my attention. I can smell the possibilities of a fresh start in the air.

Reinvigorated by the sunny days and laze of summer, life now begins again in earnest in schools, government agencies, cultural institutions and businesses across the country. There is an unmistakable aura of enthusiasm and energy in the air, a palpable sense of intensified determination. This annually renewed resolve seems so much more natural than the resolutions we make at the turn of the calendar year.

Fall jumpstarts everything, including itself. Labor Day has become the popular indicator of autumn, rather than the equinox, which occurs three weeks later. In the same way, Memorial Day, which predates the solstice by three weeks ushers in the civic summer season. By this reckoning, school starts in the fall.

Most of us have been indelibly imprinted with the excitement and optimism of the first day of school. There is nothing quite so inspiring as buying blank notebooks, pencils you have to sharpen yourself and some brand new white blouses. So clean, so fresh, so hopeful.

The Jewish New Year falls in the fall. My memories of the High Holy Days that I celebrated as a child with my family have little to do with organized religion. Rather, I remember a domestic sense of auspicious new beginnings: major house cleaning, usually a new outfit to wear to temple and best of all, we ate off of the good china with the real silverware.

I think of my birthday as being in the fall, but it is actually three or four days before the equinox. Our birthday is our own personal New Year. It is an annual reunion that we have with ourselves, and attendance is required. Our birthday is our periodic opportunity to take serious personal stock. “How am I doing?” as old Ed Koch, former mayor of New York City, would always ask. Like any new beginning, our birthday is an ideal time to sharpen our priorities, realign our perspective and rededicate ourselves to living the very best life that we can.

How old! and yet how far I am from being what I should be....I shall from this day take the firm resolution to study....to keep my attention always well fixed on whatever I am about, and strive everyday to become less trifling and more fit for what, if Heaven wils (sic) it, I’m someday to become!

- Princess (Queen-to-be) Victoria of Great Britain
In her diary on her 18th birthday

Every Autumn I take time out of time to evaluate my past experiences and actions and to prepare myself mentally, physically and spiritually for the coming year. I usually retreat to some extent and fast to some degree during the two-week period surrounding my birthday. The new and full Harvest Moon, and the equinox usually coincide.

This experience is intended to center me and slow me down. It is my birthday gift to myself. During my fast/retreat I devote myself completely to cleansing and centering myself: body, mind and spirit in readiness for the future. I rinse my system with fresh water and teas, I clean my house and altars and I use yoga, meditation and t’ai chi to flush my mind clear of the mental detritus that I have accumulated.

Since the early 1980’s, I have kept a birthday book. Therein, I ritually record an accounting of the past year. I process my impressions and my life lessons. How have I grown? What have I learned? And what is it that I just can’t seem to get through my thick skull? I plot my progress. I ponder my possibilities. I pour over my problems. I plan my goals.

This civic fall also marks the eight-year anniversary of September 11. Let us mark this propitious time by reflecting honestly upon our vulnerability in today’s terrifying political/economic climate, our culpability in the deadly repercussions that arise from our own chauvinistic attitudes and deeds, as well as our impressive individual and communal capacity for extraordinary acts of courage and devotion.

May this new season signal the beginning of a new era of planetary peace and plenty for all.

With best blessings for a new beginning,

xxQMD

2009-08-12T08:05:00.000-07:00

Summer has become intolerable for me. It is just too damn hot and I am miserable, sweaty and cranky, much of the time. But when my little pooch Poppy starts panting in the heat, her little pink tongue drooping out of her open mouth, I know the Dog Days of Summer have arrived.

For those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, summer is sizzling at its most intense right now. This is the horrid weather when, according to Noel Coward, only “mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid day sun.”

The term “dog days” was coined by the ancient Romans, who called these hot and humid days caniculares dies or “days of the dogs” after the star Sirius, Canis Majoris, the “Greater Dog,” which is one of the hunting dogs of Orion, the Hunter in the constellation that bears his name. The ancient Egyptians named Sirius the “dog star” after their god Osiris, who was often depicted as having the head of a dog.

Sirius is the brightest star in the night sky. In fact, it is so bright that it was once thought that it produced heat. In the summer, Sirius rises and sets with the sun, and beginning in July, the two stars are in conjunction. In the latitude of the Mediterranean region, this period coincided with sweltering days that were plagued with disease and discomfort.

The Dog Days are officially counted as 20 starting days before the conjunction and continuing to 20 days afterward which spans July and August, which are hottest and muggiest part of the season. The ancients believed that the heat from Sirius added to the heat of the sun during this period of conjunction, created a stretch of especially hot and sultry weather. Hence, Dog Days.

The conjunction of Sirius with the sun varies somewhat with latitude. And the “precession of the equinoxes” (a gradual drifting of the constellations over time) means that the constellations today are not in exactly the same place in the sky as they were in ancient Egypt and Rome. Today, the Dog Days occur during the period between July 3 and August 11.

Although the Dog Days are certainly the warmest period of the summer, the heat is not due to the added radiation from a far-away star, regardless of its brightness. Nor is summer’s heat in the Northern Hemisphere caused by our proximity to the sun. Earth is actually furthest away from the solar heat lamp in summer. But, because of the tilt of its axis in relation to the sun, we are blasted by a direct hit of fiery heat.

As I write this, the heat index is upward of 115 degrees. This summer is especially bad, with extreme heat waves sweeping much of North America. Our tempers are on boil and even the most innocuous disturbance is enough to send us over the emotional edge.

The entire planet is heating up right now. Literally. Global warming is playing havoc with weather patterns, which in turn, affects all plant and animal life. The debate about the greenhouse effect is also revved up to high.

In fact, all disagreements are reaching a boiling point, as is evidenced by the ever increasing and escalating geo-religious-cultural-political-economic conflicts around the globe. The world seems to be populated by a pack of wild rabid dogs fighting over scraps.

Time out!

Cool down!

Let us turn our attention to positive solutions and focus our thoughts and actions toward creating peace. Peace of Mind. Peace of
Heart. Peace on Earth. There is still a chance for peace.

With best blessings for keeping it cool,

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: LAMMAS BLESSINGS OF BREAD

2009-08-01T10:25:00.000-07:00

August 2 is the exact halfway point of summer. The Summer Cross-Quarter Day was celebrated by the Saxons as Hlaf Mass, “Feast of Bread,” and by the Celts as Lughnasadh, Commemoration of Lugh. Lugh was the grain god, son of Mother Earth. Every August he was sacrificed with the reaping of the corn only to be born again in the new shoots of spring exactly as the Egyptian, Osiris, had
been. At the moment of death, according to Egyptian scriptures, a person is also a kernel of grain, “which falls into the earth in order to draw from her bosom a new life.”

Loaf Mass and Lugh Mass evolved into Lammas, the Druid corn feast, one of the four cornerstone festivals around which their year revolved. When the Church adopted, co-opted, Lammas, it was referred to as Lamb's Mass in commemoration of St. Peter in Chains, and the practice of the offering of the first fruits on the altar remained exactly the same.

Traditional celebrations of the first corn were observed on August 1 or 2 in many cultures. Named for Juno Augusta of Rome, August was particularly sacred to the Goddess Who Gives All Life and Feeds It, Too. It was considered for this reason an especially propitious time to be born. To this day, when a Scot says that someone was born in
August, it is a compliment in praise of skilled accomplishment, with absolutely no bearing on the person's actual birthday.

The Midsummer Cross-Quarter Day is the only one of the four, which is not still actively celebrated in our contemporary culture. Midsummer is celebrated in Europe, but there it refers to June 21, the first day of summer and not the middle at all. Shakespeare's “A Midsummer Night's Dream” actually takes place on the Summer Solstice.

The only living vestige of Lammas in the United Stated is a rural holiday called Second Planting. But unless you read the Farmer's Almanac or belong to the Grange or 4H Clubs, you would have no reason to hear about it. It is celebrated exactly as Midsummer has always been celebrated. The first grain is harvested, threshed, milled, baked into bread and cake, and then shared in community. After a night of feasting and dancing, work starts again at first light planting the second crop of summer wheat, which will the mature by the fall harvest.

How can we, separated from the agricultural process by city and century, appreciate the atmosphere of the season which surrounds us, but which we cannot see? What is the Goddess of Good Grain to us of the boulangerie? The patisserie? We who buy our grain in bags, in boxes, premixed, pre-measured, prepackaged, prepared; sown, grown, harvested, hulled, milled, by someone else, somewhere else. How can we identify with the earth values taught by Terra Mater during this time of year from where we are held captive in the synthetic heart of the pop tart culture which claims us?

Well, we can behave, as they say, as if we were born in August. We can, in fact, become august — wise and generous and gloriously noble, each in our own chosen paths. We can hone our skills as the tenders of Mother Earth. We can hoe our row. We can carry our load. We can break bread together. We can feed the hungry.

We reap what we sow.

With best blessings of bountiful bread,

xxQMD

For a more detailed explanation, refer to my book, Celestially Auspicious Occasions: Seasons, Cycles and Celebrations. It is available on my website, www.donnahenes.net

Mama Donna Blesses the Fleet

2009-07-27T14:29:00.000-07:00

Mama Donna Blesses the Fleet on River Day, June 5, 2009, the kick off of the Quadricentennial Celebration of Henry Hudson's Voyage sponsored by New York Governor David Paterson. Music by the Midshipman Band of Long Island. Video by Yana Kraeva.

The Queen’s Chronicles: HOW MY GARDEN DOES GROW

2009-07-27T14:28:00.000-07:00

Being an urban being, I have never had a garden where I grew food. My terrace is devoted exclusively to flowers, food for the soul, for sure, but with the exception of the day lilies they are not edible.

My container garden gives me immense pleasure. I love digging in the dirt with my bare hands. No gloves or trowels for this Queen, thank you very much. I cherish the feel of the earth on my skin and don’t mind getting it under my nails. That is why the Goddess invented scrub brushes and soap, after all. I even make my own rich fertile soil by composting dead leaves and food scraps in a garbage pail.

I can spend hours on end dead heading my plants and picking off the dry leaves one by one. I tend my garden with love and care and it cultivates me in return. My plants are my dear friends, my children, really. They have been with me, loyally flourishing and flowering for decades. All of my geraniums, for instance, are from cuttings from one small plant that I had on my windowsill in my Greenwich Village apartment in 1969!

My ceremonial space, Mama Donna’s Tea Garden & Healing Haven is an indoor garden paradise decorated with vintage yard furniture and filled with plants. Some of these I have had for 30 years or more. Some I have inherited from family and friends who have passed on. I am so glad to be the caretaker of these living memorials. Their spirit is alive in the plants that they loved and nurtured. And everyone who enters this sacred space feels the green healing energy.

Once upon a time I grew weed(s) for imbibing from the seeds in my stash. This crop, too, was food for my soul. But that was then and this is now. And now I am drawn to plant and raise some foodstuff. My options are limited by space constraints, but the time feels right to start with some herbs and maybe some berries or baby lettuces. Or maybe it is too late for this season. I don’t know. I will have to do some research. What I do know is that I want to taste what I grow.

With best blessings for nourishment from Mother Earth,

xxQMD

Mama Donna Blesses Hudson River

2009-07-27T12:43:00.000-07:00

Mama Donna and 9 members of her Blessing Band bless the waters of the Hudson River as the closing ceremony of the Hudson River Pageant on May 9, 2009, (The Full Flower Moon). The blessing used holy/healing waters from around the world and rose petals. Live music by David Hykes. Video by Yana Kraeva.

The Queen’s Chronicles: WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

2009-07-02T06:49:00.000-07:00

It is raining. Pouring. Again! For weeks now it has rained just about every day. The entire Northeast is inundated with more rain than we can possibly deal with.

In the best of times, precipitation is seen as beneficent, raining down life-sustaining liquids for our benefit. And then we are grateful, or ought to be.

But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. We are nearly drowning in the stuff. Saturated, soaked, sogged. Completely waterlogged. Rivers rushing down city streets, the drains overflowing. Towns, fields and highways flooded. Dams, bridges, houses and lives swept irrevocably away. And the predicted storms aren’t over yet.

People have long believed that bad weather is some kind of vengeful divine retribution. Punishment for our earthly misbehavior. Certainly in the face of extreme hardship, this is a tempting response, based, perhaps, on guilt. But, of course, weather is weather, a neutral force. Our perception of whether it is good or bad is based solely and myopically on our own immediate inconvenience.

But maybe this rain is not aimed at us. Maybe Mother Earth is engaged in a deep purification ritual, a much needed purging of Her soiled body and profound pain. Picture Her, like any rape victim standing under a pounding shower for hours, days and weeks, trying to wash away the dirt and degradation that we have heaped upon Her so mercilessly.

Or maybe She is weeping, sobbing, down pouring tears of sad disappointment in us, Her errant, arrogant offspring, so rude and disrespectful. After all, just look at what we gave the Poor Old Dear for Mother’s Day in gratitude for all of Her great gifts to us: greenhouse gases, radiation, drilling, missile tests, oil spills and chemical trails.

Or this is a watery warning, perhaps. A reminder to appreciate the present and prepare for the future. To re-enforce our roofs, buy Wellington boots and build a safe, waterproof ark where we can collect, preserve and protect, two by two, all of our best intentions and human qualities: hope and love, charity and understanding, forgiveness and peace, compassion and reverence for all life.

Best blessings for keeping dry,

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: REQUIEM FOR POPPY’S PIGEON

2009-05-22T07:16:00.000-07:00

I killed another bird this week. That is to say, that I rescued an injured bird two weeks ago that I was not able to prevent from dying. Again. I do this every spring. Somehow every year I find a fallen baby bird. I take it home and nurse it, but the results are rarely good. On occasion I have raised one to the point when it can fly off on its own. But usually, the ending is not so happy.

In this case, it was a young pigeon still with some baby fuzz and fluffy rust-colored pinfeathers. You never see baby pigeons. The parents keep them totally out of sight until they can be independent. But here was one sitting on the pavement of the parking lot of my building. I had to move it, or it would have been run over. I could have just put it into some bushes, but it surely would have been eaten by the marauding night cats,

I noticed that it had a head wound and also a few on its chest. It had fallen from one of the ledges on the building where pigeons roost. It was very still, perhaps in shock, and let me pick it up. I took it home and cleaned its wounds with peroxide and put it in a box. I tended the cuts and abrasions often, and after a couple of days they were healed.

It became more alert and clearly stronger. The next thing was to feed it. But it refused the gruel that I made from pulverized cat food — the recommended food for baby birds. About five days passed with no food or water. And yet it kept getting better and better. Animals don’t eat when they are sick or injured, so I didn’t force-feed it.

Then I offered it some seeds and he pecked t them. Yea! I took the box outside onto my terrace. He (familiarity changed him from an it to a he) immediately discovered the pan of water that I keep out there for the birds and climbed in. He drank and waded, then pecked some more. Victory!

This went on for days. We had a routine. I took him in at night and covered the box with a dark cloth and then took him outside into the sunshine each day. He walked further and further everyday, exploring, pecking, flapping his wings. But he loved his box and spent most of his time nesting.

Poppy, my little dog was fascinated by him and followed him around. And visa versa. They bonded with each other and I am not sure who imprinted on whom. But they were a team. This was definitely Poppy’s pigeon. She had just had her fifth birthday and I couldn’t have gotten her a better or more beloved present.

All went well. He liked coming into the house and I would usher him back out, not wanting pigeon poop all over. One day I found him in my office. I picked him up and took him back outside. I threw him up a bit and he flew a little. So now it was just a matter of time and he would soon fly away into his adult life.

Two days ago I drank my morning tea on the terrace enjoying the dog and pigeon show. I needed to change clothes to go to the gym and called the dog inside and closed the door. But the two little lovers each ran to the glass door, trying to reach each other through the panes. So I let Poppy back out.

My fatal mistake. A stupid misjudgment. An idiotic lapse of vigilance.

I changed and when I came out to the terrace the bird was dead on the floor and Poppy was cowering under a chair. I couldn’t believe it. Poppy killed her pigeon. She did the deed but the blood is on my hands. It was totally my fault and the guilt is tormenting me. I was furious with her, but much angrier with myself. How could I have let this happen?

Poppy is devastated. Not by guilt. She doesn’t understand what happened, but by grief. She misses the bird and keeps looking for it. I don’t believe it was animal killer instinct. She is not a killer, but a Papillion/Shitzu mix, a lapdog breed. She literally loved him to death.

And I guess that is what I do. I mean well. I want to help, to heal, to rescue, to save, to love all life into health and happiness. And I always succeed, but just to a point and then something happens. I make a mistake of some sort and all is lost.

So what is the lesson? And when will I learn it? They say that one shouldn’t interfere with Nature. But aren’t we all part of Nature? Isn’t it up to each of us to try to save and heal each other? I don’t know the answer. But I do know that I will probably do it again. That is my nature.

Best blessings of healing,

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: MOTHER EARTH DAY EVERY DAY

2009-04-21T17:47:00.000-07:00

The Queen’s Chronicles: MOTHER EARTH DAY EVERY DAY

Earth and woman share a correspondence of function, a facility for creativity and abundance, a worldly wisdom. Each is primary and potent. Even in appearance, are they the same. Just as the roundness of the earth and Her cyclical seasons resonate in every woman, the surface shapes and internal configurations of the earth are defined by the physical attributes of the female physique.

The soil, smoothly moist and rich, arid, cracked and parched, is Her skin; and the lush foliage, the fuzzy moss, the spindled grasses, are Her many splendid tresses. The trees are arms, legs, limbs, which reach out and dance in all directions. The roots, feet firm on the ground. Gems and crystalline minerals make Her strong skeletal system; and the rivers, creeks and streams are the blood that flows through Her veins.

The air is Her hot breath, Her holy exhalation. The seeds of plants are Her sacred monthly flow. Her pregnant belly is indicated in the rounded hills and Her mountainous breasts swell all the way to the sky. The valleys reflect the soft shapes of Her cradling elbows and comforting lap. The ocean is Her womb, the saline-rich source of all life. Rock clefts like labia, and vulvic caves are passageways into Her cavernous interior; the power of Her hallowed deep places, palpable.

Mother Earth, Mother Nature, has Her moods as well as any woman might. Her emotions, like the weather, are mutable and span the full spectrum. She rainbow-glows, radiant in health and beauty. She twinkles like the stars; sparkles with good humor. She grows overcast, gets dark, oblique, breezy and cool. She weeps with dew. She simmers and hisses on slow burn. She vents her steam. She quakes in anger. She rumbles and grumbles and tears the house down. She sparks, bursts, erupts, explodes, implodes in passion. She can be gentle, generous, humorous, dependable, destructive and very, very scary. Hell, indeed, hath no fury like an earthy woman scorned.

Mother Earth, universally worshipped as the fertile, female provider, protector and parent, was always treated with great dignity and care. Cultivated fields were left to rest one year in seven lest they become worn out with the never ending work of producing food, and wars were routinely put on hold during the planting season. Woman was cherished as the incarnate daughter of the Great Cosmic Queen, because she embodied the same supreme capability of life. Her natural understanding was held in esteem, and her body, its terrestrial contours reminiscent of those of Mother Earth, was respected. Once upon a time, that is.

A rather bizarre form of pornography, known as pornotopia, was produced during the Victorian period in England. Mother Earth was personified as a voluptuous female landscape laid bare to the voyeuristic viewing pleasure of man who surveys the scene before him from the perspective of a fly promenading upon Her full-figured splendor. Her hills and caves, rises and recesses, were described in somewhat smarmy terms which were meant to elicit the fascinating, fearsome, forbidden Oedipal fantasy of a man mounting his own mother in lust. Where in the past, the Earth had once been revered, She was here reviled, defiled, desecrated. Stripped bare of Her powers, She was reduced to a passive sexual object, sacked and soiled.

Today the body of the Earth, our first mother, is routinely bruised and abused. Raped and burned; dug and dammed; dynamited and nuked. As many as one hundred distinct species of plants and animals are disappearing from existence each day, directly or indirectly due to human domination. And the bodies of women everywhere fare no better.

How in the world did The Good Earth — the very material (from the Latin, mater, meaning, “mother”) of life itself — get to be a dirty word? Or Mutha, for that matter? According to the esteemed Oxford English Dictionary, dirt means, “grime,” “stain,” “smut.” Dirty is “lewd,” “defiled,” “contaminated,” “dingy,” “unsanitary,” “filthy,” “polluted,” “foul.” Not one mention of dirt as the flesh of the Goddess, as the source of the nutrients that nourish us, as the bosom of the Mother that will cradle us when we die. How did it come to pass that the Earth Mother whose grace we depend upon for absolutely everything has become so thoroughly sullied? And more important, how can we repair the damage?

We can begin by commemorating Earth Day in Her honor. Since 1971, Earth Day has been celebrated to remind the people of the world of the need for continuing care which is vital to Earth’s safety and our own. The vernal equinox was originally chosen as the official date to honor Earth for its symbolism — equilibrium and balance — in order to encourage and inspire a universal sense of interdependence, cooperation, and unity. Now we celebrate it on April 22, which has, heretofore, been Arbor Day.

The vernal equinox calls on all mankind to recognize and respect Earth’s beautiful systems of balance, between the presence of animals on land, the fish in the sea, birds in the air, mankind, water, air, and land. Most importantly there must always be awareness of the actions by people that can disturb this precious balance.
- Margaret Mead

On Earth Day the United Nations Peace Bell is rung to initiate a moment of global equipoise when people worldwide can join in a renewed heartfelt commitment to the protection and care of our planet. The United Nations Earth Day event is the centerpiece of an annual global holiday that strives to awaken a common objective of local and global harmony with nature and neighbors.

The original Earth Day proclamation states, “All individuals and institutions have a mutual responsibility to act as Trustees of Earth, seeking the choices in ecology, economics, and ethics that will eliminate pollution, poverty, and violence; foster peaceful progress; awaken the wonder of life; and realize the best potential for the future of the human adventure.”

Last month, two billion people worldwide participated in Earth Hour by turning off their lights as a visual demonstration of the dramatic difference made possible by each individual coupled with the efforts of others. But one hour, one day is barely a beginning. Let one hour, one day inspire two, twenty, two hundred. Let every day be Earth Day.

There is no social-change fairy. There is only change made by the hands of individuals.
- Winona LaDuke

With every blessing from Mother Earth and every blessing for Her,

XxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: April Fool’s Day

2009-04-01T13:48:00.000-07:00

People everywhere seem to have regarded themselves as sufficiently ridiculous as to require some serious comeuppance, judging by the universality of Festivals of Fools. The special Fool Days are dedicated to a ritualized recognition of our all-too-human folly. On Days of the Fool there are no intermediary clowns. Everybody gets to play the fool.

Within this ceremonial context, we can act out an upside-down idiot reality with absolute impunity. We are free to tease and taunt, safely flaunt our fatuous fate. This comic relief, this unrestrained retreat from seriousness, serves as a safety valve for society. It allows for the cathartic release of emotion, tension, anxiety, and the diffusion of disappointments and dangerous resentments.

Archaic definitions for fool include “imbecile, idiot, mentally defective, silly, stupid, devoid of wisdom.” “Fool” is from the Latin, follis, which means, “bellows, ball filled with air.” As in, wind bag. Airhead. Buffoon is related to the Italian, buffare, “to puff.” There is an airy quality implied in the language, which describes a fool — an incredible lightness of movement, of the moment, of being. A new way of seeing, which dissolves the solidity of the so-called real world. There is a Yiddish proverb that says, “The complete fool is half prophet.”

In Scotland, November 8, is kept as Dunce Day. This Fool’s Day was named after Duns Scotus, a ninth century scholar who created a cone-shaped hat to energize the brain of his foolish students. The first Tuesday in May is the Fool’s Fair in Wales. Awa Odori, A Fool Dance is staged annually in Japan, while the Russians celebrate the Day of St. Basil the Fool of Moscow. Fashing, or Fastnacht, is a raucous two-day Feast of Fools that precedes the pre-Lenten carnival in Austria. Purim, the Jewish Feast of Esther, is celebrated with an atmosphere of exuberance, a joyous, boisterous mocking of tradition and decorum, when it is customary, on this one day only, to drink to giddy excess.

The Hindu holiday of spring fools is Holi, celebrated as a high-spirited fire festival, which proclaims the death of Winter and the onset of spring fever. For five days there is utter relaxation of the accepted rules of behavior. Lewdness prevails. People spray each other in the streets with powdered color pigments. There is a ribald shift in the normal relations among the castes and between the sexes, which often degenerates into mudslinging and public beatings of men by women.

Most of Europe and North America celebrate the Fool on April 1st. In Scotland, April 1 is known as Huntigowok. In Fife, a peninsula north of Edinburgh, the foolishness continues on April, 2, Taily Day, when the fun is limited to the immediate area of the backside. An entire day dedicated to buttocks jokes and “kick me” signs.

In France, the Fools Festival is Poisson d'Avril, “April Fish.” Is this a reference to the sun's leaving the constellation Pisces? Because April fish are easy to catch? Or, perhaps, a symbol of the meatless Lenten month? Here, too, people concentrate on each other’s ass ends. The idea of the day is to surreptitiously pin paper fish on the backsides of the unsuspecting. Unsigned joke cards decorated with fish are also exchanged.

So why April Fools' Day? Because April weather is so capricious? Because in April we are like a kindergarten class of hyperactive puppies exploding out of winter into recess? Or, as they say in Indiana, "April is the cruelest month?" Holi and Purim are celebrated near the Spring Equinox, as were the Roman holiday Hilaria and also the vernal festival for the Celtic God of Mirth.

Perhaps these spring high jinx were the true precedents of April Fool’s Day, but the official story goes: Until the Middle Ages, New Year was celebrated in Europe beginning on March 25, the approximate Vernal Equinox and lasting eight days until April 1 when festivities culminated in a day of visiting and gift exchange. Then in 1582, the new Gregorian calendar was adopted and New Year’s Day was suddenly changed and officially established as January 1. Those folks who forgot the change or who insisted on maintaining the old traditions were called April Fools. They were gifted with joke presents and sent on fool's errands.

Today, we silly so and so’s who putter with nature, who foolishly toy with the elements and fool with the future could stand a strict Trickster talking-to. A little comical self-critique is most certainly called for about now. A good swift kick in the perspective is what we need. The stakes are enormous. The joker is wild. We can no longer afford to play the fool.

With blessings of serious fun,

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: AN HOUR IN THE DARK

2009-03-31T12:58:00.000-07:00

I am writing this in the dark. It is Earth Hour, a rolling blackout around the world intended as a visual, visceral vote for increased awareness and concern about climate change. In fact, it is the first-ever global vote on anything.

All of my lights are out. I can see the Manhattan skyline from the windows in my loft in Exotic Brooklyn. It is eerily dark. Landmarks and iconic buildings everywhere from the Empire State building to the Eiffel Tower, to the Golden Gate Bridge to the Great Pyramids and Sphinx went dark.

I cooked dinner by candlelight on a gas range. How many others around the world were doing the same? How many were sitting around dining room tables at home and in restaurants in the soft light of lanterns and oil lamps? How many cook and eat by a fire every night?

It is estimated that one billion folks in four thousand cities in eighty-eight countries worldwide participated in this massive project. Earth Hour is a graphic pledge to do one’s part for planetary protection and healing. I feel so connected to all the participants as we share this global ritual. For one hour, we are all one, joined in service to our mutual Mother Earth and ultimately each other.

Earth Hour can have very concrete potential consequences if everyone follows through and acts responsibly going forward. For example, if every business and household replaced just one light bulb with a compact fluorescent one, enough energy would be saved that one nuclear power plant could be taken off the grid.

We can turn this crisis around. We each need to do our part. Not just for Earth Hour, not just for Earth Day, but for every minute of every hour every day. We CAN do this. Yes we can!

With blessings to and from and for the Earth.

xxMama Donna

The Queen’s Chronicles: LUCKY FRIDAY THE 13th

2009-03-13T14:17:00.000-07:00

When the 13th day on the month lands on a Friday, the culturally unfavorable attributes of each are multiplied by infinity. Friday, the day of original sin, the day Jesus died, the day of public hangings, in combination with 13, the number of steps on a gallows, the number of coils of rope in a hangman’s noose, the number of the Death card in the tarot deck, is indubitably designated as a day of portent and doom.

The pitiful suicide note of a window washer that was found with his body in a gas-filled room at his home and quoted in a 1960 issue of the Yorkshire Post, underscores its powerful, popular reputation, "It just needed to rain today - Friday the 13th - for me to make up my mind." Poor sod.

But up until the patriarchal revolution, both Fridays and 13s were held in the very highest esteem. Both the day and the number were associated with the Great Goddesses, and therefore, regarded as the sacred essence of luck and good fortune. Thirteen is certainly the most essentially female number - the average number of menstrual cycles in a year. The approximate number, too of annual cycles of the moon. When Chinese women make offerings of moon cakes, there are sure to be 13 on the platter. Thirteen is the number of blood, fertility and lunar potency. 13 is the lucky number of the Great Goddess.

Held holy in Her honor, Friday was observed as the day of Her special celebrations. Jews around the world still begin the observance of the Sabbath at sunset on Friday evenings when they invite in the Sabbath Bride. Friday is the Sabbath in the Islamic world. Friday is also sacred to Oshun, the Yoruban orisha of opulent sensuality and overwhelming femininity, and Frig the Norse Goddess of love and sex, of fertility and creativity. Her name became the Anglo-Saxon noun for love, and in the sixteenth century, frig came to mean “to copulate.”

Friday the 13th is ultimately the celebration of the lives and loves of Lady Luck. On this, Her doubly-dedicated day, let us consider what fortuitous coincidences constitute our fate. The lucky blend of just the right conditions, chemistries, elements and energies, which comprise our universe. The way it all works. The way we are. That we are at all. That, despite whatever major or minor matters we might think are unlucky, we have somehow managed to remain alive and aware. This Friday the 13th, let us stand in full consciousness of the miraculousness of existence and count our blessings. Knock on wood!

With blessings of luck and love.

xxQMD

Mama Donna Blesses the Halloween Parade

2009-03-09T12:42:00.000-07:00

Inauguration Purification. Part II

2009-02-04T14:04:00.000-08:00

Inauguration Purification. Part I

2009-02-04T12:08:00.000-08:00

The Queen’s Chronicles: OUT WITH THE OLD, BLESS THE NEW

2009-01-31T15:19:00.000-08:00

When Kate Clinton invited me to conduct the purification ceremony at a public event she organized for the eve of the inauguration called, Sage the White House, I was delighted. Certainly, after eight long years of dirty deals, dirty politics, dirty wars and dirty little secrets our country was in need of a deep cleansing. And I have a lot of experience as a public blesser.

But focusing our purification intention on the White House was too narrow, I thought. So I was pleased when we were forced to relocate the event to Dupont Circle. This way, we could direct our energy out in a complete circle. We can’t just focus on the president. What about Congress? What about the courts? What about Wall Street?

And most importantly, what about us? We have been culpable, too. We let it all happen through our complacent co-operation. Me might not have approved of what was going on, but what did we do about? We did protest the Iraq war, but where was the mass outrage as one by one our constitutional rights were revoked?

Who among us did not shop and enjoy the lucrative, good times? We need to remember that in a democracy we have not only the right, but also the responsibility to comment on the conduct and ethos of our nation — vociferously, if we have to.

So my ritual was about releasing all that we do not wish to take with us into this new era that we are now beginning — our attitudes and values, our culpability and our laziness, as well as the ill deeds of our government. Once we let all the negativity go, it was important to cleanse the toxic residue that it can leave behind. And then once the atmosphere was cleared and purified, we called in all our good qualities and intentions for a positive change for the good of all.

We accomplished all that in a big way. Nearly a thousand souls gathered at Dupont Circle in Washington, DC to participate in the Inauguration Purification Ritual.

Inauguration Purification Ritual Part 1:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A1tkLlf5MXE&feature=channel_page

Inauguration Purification Ritual Part 2:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TudynPUgnpc&feature=channel

We now have a fresh start. This time, may we step into the fray and involve ourselves, not only in discussions and complaints about our problems, but also in search of creative solutions to them.

With blessings of peace, sanity and sustainability,

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: HAPPY NEW ERA

2009-01-15T05:21:00.000-08:00

I don’t know about you, but I am so glad and relieved that we are finally in 2009. And just in time, is all I can say. The house-of-cards-culture of deception, cynical exploitation, excess and greed that has prevailed for the past decades has collapsed under the weight of its own consumption, crushing the lives and dreams of millions of people.

A new year, a new beginning, a fresh start is just what we need about now. New Year is a return to the eternal beginnings. Back to where there is only hope and promise and enthusiastic, well-intentioned energy. Back to the original big bang back seat cosmic conception where all things are possible.

Despite the dismal prognostications, there is definitely hope in the air these days, and excitement at the prospect of change. The freshness, idealism, and renewed faith in the future, even in the face of impending hardship, is palpable and vivifying.

Ironic, isn’t it? And so very heartening.

It is like the entire nation is waking up from a stuporous dream, drugged by too much food and drink, our adrenals depleted by years of operating in frantic overdrive racing to achieve, to succeed, to spend, to accumulate, to expand until we explode. Enough already. Basta!

Time to shake off the shroud of vacuous values and get back to the basics.
People everywhere are girding themselves for tough times ahead, but instead of resistance and resentment, I sense a sincere desire to live in a more conscientious, connected and authentic manner. A yearning for life built on principles that we can be proud of.

This fall I went to the 60th birthday party of a very old and dear friend. Due to budget constraints, the venue was the back room of a funkyish bar. The
refreshments consisted of pitchers of beer and sangria and scant little fried things. All in all, perfect for a college bash, but a bit strange for a room full of midlife women. Or so it seemed at first.

The birthday Queen specified no gifts, but requested a song, instead. And her adoring guests complied. They brought songs alright, complete with costumes and creative props. The show was fabulous — touching and hilarious. And there was dancing. Lots of dancing. It was a really great celebration, rich in all the right components. I can’t remember having so much simple down home fun at a party in a long time.

After all, how many poo-poo foodie parties can you stand? You know the kind I mean. “This cheese is so special, only two cows in the whole world make it! And it only costs $46. a quarter of a pound.” Pulease.

One of my New Year resolutions is to entertain more this year. Not big parties, but intimate dinners with six or eight people who can be depended upon for fascinating conversation and true communion. I am craving old-fashioned one-pot suppers — soups, stews, casseroles, salads. Good bread. Good wine. Good talk. Good quality time.

I remember my mother talking about the depression. It dashed her plans to go to college. Instead, she had to work in a fruit store. But she never complained about that. (Don’t get me wrong, my mother was a great complainer.) She always said about those years, “People stuck together then, and helped each other.” And, “We knew how to have fun.”

With this new year we enter a new era. The main challenge that we will face in these uncertain times is not the economy. Nor is it the unnerving and seemingly psychotic political scenarios being played out all around the world. Not to mention the grief that they create.

Our challenge is to stay in our center come what may. Our challenge is to breathe in the energy of the life force and to exhale respect, reverence and awe. Our challenge is to be unshakeable in our faith. To share our love. And to shine our spiritual light.

This year may we discover and embrace our own purpose, passion and power.
May we accept our responsibility and our rule. May we take our ideas and our skills and use them to create a viable, safe, sustainable and sane world for us all.

With blessings of peace and joy. Peace! And joy!

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: THOUGHTS ON EARLY MORNING SOLSTICES

2008-12-20T07:32:00.000-08:00

I've been getting a lot of calls from folks asking about when this year’s Winter Solstice is.

“It's this Sunday,” I tell them.

“Oh, great! Sunday!” they happily reply. (Meaning “Finally a day when I can actually come, because I don't have to work.”) Then they ask, “What time?”

“The ceremony starts at 6:30 AM,” I cheerfully inform them.

“Oh. Well, have a good time!” (Meaning, “I'll think of you out there in the freezing snow as I roll over for four more hours of sleep.”

Every soulstice for the past 34 years I have trekked out — no matter what time, what weather, what infirmity — to invite the sun back into our lives.

Every year, I think that I will be all alone in the dark-freezing-wind-rain-snow at some weird inconvenient hour. That no one else will get up out of their flannel sheets to drum and chant the sun back.

But every year, people do come. And you know what? The toughest, hardest, worst weather, worst-timed events are always everybody's favorite. They are the best memories!

And there is always something hard about the Winter Solstice!

“Remember when it was pouring and we fanned the flames of the fire with our umbrellas?”

“Remember the time the ritual bus broke down in Brooklyn? Broke down in Staten Island? On the Verrazano Bridge?”

“Remember when I wrapped the cast on my broken ankle in a garbage bag so I could walk on the sand of the Atlantic Ocean beach for the solstice fire?”

“Remember when we were all arrested? And ultimately vindicated?”

Oy! During the past 34 years I have learned that it is a very difficult thing, indeed, to bring back the sun. To encourage light and warmth in a cold, dark environment.

But it is so worth the effort!

The exact solstice moment is 7:04AM EST this Sunday morning. Adjust the time to your local zone.) You can celebrate wherever you are. Just get up and go outside, preferably somewhere green. And greet the sun. Align your energy with it. Pledge to be a light in the world. What better ritual could there be?

With bright soulstice blessings,

xxQMD

Mama Donna Henes, Urban Shaman

2008-12-08T14:08:00.000-08:00

House Blessing with Mama Donna Henes

2008-12-04T11:44:00.000-08:00

Stock Exchange Blessing with Mama Donna

2008-12-04T11:28:00.000-08:00

2008-11-08T12:04:00.000-08:00

The Queen’s Chronicles: RETREAT DEFFERED

My birthday is rarely a party time any more. Cake and low-fat frozen yogurt are now longer the fulfilling richness I seek in my birthday celebrations. A party just doesn’t feed me, although last year on my birthday I made a dinner party for all of the dear ones in my life who do feed me, help me in all sorts of ways in every aspect of my living — my work assistants past and present, my acupuncturist, my hair cutter, my car mechanic, my mentor, my agent, my oh so ever-helpful lover. I wanted to thank them with conviviality, good food and spirit.

But normally I prefer — crave, actually — solitude and silence. For me, my birthday is a profound opportunity to take serious personal stock. It is the perfect time to check in with my deepest and best self to evaluate the past year and to project the next. “How am I doing?” as old Ed Koch, former mayor of New York City, would always ask. How have I coped? Changed? Succeeded? How am I stuck? What have I learned? And what can I just not get through my thick skull?

For the past thirty years, I have retreated to some extent and fasted to some degree for a one-to-two week period around my birthday, during which time I devote myself entirely to purifying my body, my home, my thoughts, my emotions, my intentions. I keep a series of Birthday Books in which I process my impressions and my lessons, plot my progress, ponder my problems, plan my goals.

I scrub my house. I cleanse my toxins with juices, broths, teas and herbs. And release my tensions with long walks in nature and luxuriantly long baths. I release my inhibitions with yoga and trance dance. I purge my possessions along with the detritus of my mind by culling files, by pruning irrelevance. I plan potlatch giveaways, and extreme throw aways.

This introspective birthday ritual is my way to center myself. To sharpen my focus, realign my perspective and rededicate myself to living the very best life I can. I emerge with energy and enthusiasm, my path re-consecrated with purpose, passion and power. This annual reunion with myself is crucial to my well-being and the purity of my spiritual work. And attendance is required. Or else!

Because of a crazy schedule of personal and professional commitments, I couldn’t do my customary birthday fast and retreat in September this year. And I have really been paying the price for having missed it. For these past two months I have been out of sorts, out of patience, out of my body, out of steam. Generally down and out.

Now that the mad rush of September and October are over and I am feeling so soul bereft and bone weary exhausted, I am determined to have my deferred retreat. I hereby claim the next ten days as mine and mine, alone. Starting now!

The Queen’s Chronicles: SAY SOMETHING!

2008-10-18T19:14:00.000-07:00

It is so damn easy to feel depressed, frustrated and disillusioned right now. These are terrible times of artificial division, manipulated resentment and palpable fear. The real dynamic being played out right now is not about warring religious, economic, political or nationalistic factions. Not about the economy. Not about war. The struggle is actually between those who believe that the world is defined in terms of opposition — war or peace, right or wrong, rich or poor, with us or against us — and those who are able to see things in a more holistic, congruent manner.

These are deciding times. It is imperative for those of us who see the big picture to decide, to commit, to make a concerted effort to reach out in ever-expanding circles of affinity and embrace. Now is the time to create healthy, functioning networks in recognition and in honor of our mutual state of being and our common fate.

Because there really is still a chance for peace — and that chance will definitely increase if we each do our piece. It is ultimately up to us, each one of us, all of us, individually and together, to create the kind of world in which we want to live — starting right here, right now. Within the context of our immediate lives, within the concentric circles of our ordinary interactions.

I once gave a presentation in Washington, D.C. about creating peace in our world and in our lives. During the question and answer period, a woman commented that she wished that she could drop her job and just devote herself to working for peace.” “What do you do?” I asked her. “I’m a therapist,” she replied. Surely she has many opportunities in her professional capacity to create peace every day.

Some might argue that we don't have any choice in this upside down dangerous world and that we can't effect what will happen. But even if we can't immediately alter the course of human events on the world stage, we can certainly create change in our own lives and in all of the lives that we touch. And our thoughts are the seeds of that change.

Dr. Christiane Northrup writes, “Use your thoughts wisely. Understand
their power. Thoughts have a tendency to become their physical equivalent. This is one of the fundamental laws of the universe. Another one is the law of attraction, which states that 'like attracts like.' Because it is consciousness that creates reality, the kind of consciousness you hold — your vibration — actually creates the kind of life you're living.”

So our first order of business must be to stay positive. To entertain only positive possibilities. To imagine only affirmative alternatives. To surround ourselves with wholly uplifting, life-affirming people and influences. To align ourselves solely with the greater good so that our actions will be born of only the finest of our best intentions.

What we all have to do from now on is to stay alert, stay centered, keep connected and most important of all, keep talking. Talking, writing, protesting keeps the light of truth and tolerance shining upon the hidden agendas of governments, industries, institutions and individuals. Silence, like the dark of night, shelters nefarious deeds. Silence forgives violence.

I have been haunted recently by the words written by a Protestant minister after the downfall of the Nazi regime. “First they came for the gays. I am not gay, so I didn’t say anything. Then they came for the Gypsies. I am not a Gypsy, so I didn’t say anything. Then they came for the Jews. I am not a Jew, so I didn’t say anything. Then they came for the Catholics. I am not a Catholic, so I didn’t say anything. When they finally came for me, there was no one left to say anything.”

Be bold.
Make a statement.
Make a stand.
Make a difference.

In light of the widespread oppression, manipulation, intimidation that surrounds us today, we most certainly need to say something. We need. In fact, to talk to everyone who we meet, actually engage on a human level with those who we encounter as we make it through our day. Not just our families, friends and colleagues — those of presumed like-minds — but also the shoe repair guy, the waitress at the coffee shop, the post office clerk, the bag boy at the super market.

A good example is Dianne, one of the wonderful people who regularly attends my healing circles. She not only prays for the homeless men and women who live on her block, she calls them each by name. I am so impressed and inspired by her personal outreach to the “untouchables.” Everybody is, after all, somebody.

If we ignore, exploit or patronize those people whose lives intersect with ours, how can we expect international relations to be more civilized? We need to walk our talk wherever we go, whatever we do, remembering always, that by doing so we do make a difference. Let us each be a sun, sending our caring energy out into the world, shedding light wherever we go. You never know whom you might touch with the radiance of your warmth.

I have an outgoing message on my answering machine that doesn’t even say, “Hello.” It just starts right in with, “You know there really is still a chance for peace and that chance will definitely increase if we each do our piece. So let’s make peace — in our homes, in our own hearts, in our relationships, in our communities, in all of our dealings and in the world. Peace be with us all.”

Much to my surprise, the very people whom I never would have thought would respond favorably have. The overwhelmingly positive reactions that I have received from workmen, telephone solicitors and service personnel has been an important lesson about the necessity to reach out beyond the boundaries of our biases, assumptions and expectations.

A few weeks ago, I came home to a message from the plumber who was making an appointment to fix my sink. After listening to my taped pep talk, he answered in his gravely Brooklyn brogue, “Yeah, what is this war all about, anyway? Why are we fighting those people? They never hurt us.” This, from someone I would have assumed to be a proponent of the war.

The electrician, another guy who really shocked me, loves the message and calls in daily just to hear it! Once I was here when he called and when I picked up, he complained. “Let me call back again,” he implored. “I want to hear the message. It makes me feel good.” The reason, he explained, is that it is not political. It is personal. And it touches his heart.

But why was I surprised? People are just people, after all. When you think about it, all people are of a like-mind when it comes to living a life unthreatened by hatred and violence. The urgency for war only seems enticing when it is waged elsewhere. Ask anyone. "Do you want bombs and missiles to blow up your house?"

Every parent has the right to put her/his child to sleep each night without any risk of that child being shot, trapped in the midst of some hostile crossfire — be it in Iraq, Afghanistan, Ireland, Angola or the South Bronx. No one wants to live and work in a war zone — in Palestine, Bosnia, Zimbabwe, the World Trade Center or East L.A.

So, buck up and say what is on your mind. The more you do so, the more empowered you will feel.

We become just by performing just actions,
temperate by performing temperate actions,
brave by performing brave actions.
—Aristotle

With blessings of speaking your truth,

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL

2008-10-02T20:38:00.000-07:00

It is hard to stay hopeful when you are worried to death. It requires determined attention and an exquisite combination of focus, concentration and surrender. It is an exercise of discipline, a test of faith, a karmic obligation.

During a recent ceremony of deep cleansing and release, I passed a set of Guatemalan worry dolls around the circle to help us relinquish the nagging apprehensions and insidious anxieties that sap our strength and resolve. All those sneaky, nasty, niggly worries that worm their way into our brains and take up our good time.

Worry dolls are wonderful. There is nothing you can’t tell them. Absolutely nothing shocks them, they’ve heard it all before. And whatever it is that troubles you, they take care of it. Get rid of it. Swallow it. Spirit it away. It is their job, and they are professionals.
What at tremendous relief it is to hand over your distress to someone else to deal with.

As each participant took the tiny figures into the palm of her hand,
s/he would allow the flood gates of her heart to open, and let loose a stream of sadness, stress, panic, guilt, worst-case scenarios, and catastrophic fears.

When the dolls reached Anita, a woman in her late sixties, she calmly declared, “I don’t worry. I hope.”

Brilliant! I felt five decades of self-conscious, conscientious pollyannaism vindicated by the tranceparent truth of that one simple statement. Talk about positive reinforcement.

There are those who say that hope is futile, a waste of time, of precious energy. They contend that hope is completely unrealistic. Simply wishful thinking, they insist. And I say, “Yes. It is, and thank goodness!”

Studies show that optimistic people consistently out-perform those who consider themselves to be more realistic, because they place fewer restrictions on themselves. If you don’t know that something is impossible, you are more likely able to be able to do it. “I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.”

While we often have little or no control over the situations that affect us, we do have control over our own perceptions of them. We do have the very real and extremely potent power of perspective. And we definitely possess the crucial and vitally influential choice of how we will deal with whatever comes our way. How we will handle ourselves.

In a wide range of happiness studies conducted lately, including several with major lottery winners, it was clearly demonstrated that professional, educational, or financial success are not predictors of contentment. Nor are gender, age, race, religion, health, or ethnic background.

The key, common factors across the board that seem to determine satisfaction, peace of mind, and yes, happiness, are: optimism, self-confidence, self-control, connection to community, and living sense of spirituality. And, I might add, the desire to be so.

Take me, for instance. I was the most miserable of children. Painfully shy, sadly confused, and badly bruised; constantly abused by great chilly blasts of debilitating negativity. All I ever wanted was to be happy. When an adult would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would — in my imagination where I dared — answer, “Happy.”

I hung hand lettered and illustrated affirmations (before there was a word for such things) all over my room: I WANT TO BE HAPPY. I WILL BE HAPPY. And then, when I was eighteen years old and living away from home for the first time, it suddenly, incredibly, indelibly occurred to me one marvelous morning that I could be anybody I wanted to be. I could be a happy person!

Happiness is fleeting (as is pain.) The trick is to court it, to recognize it — even in camouflage, to acknowledge it’s presence when and where we least expect it, to celebrate each second of the healing heart and soul of it, and to rejoice in our own exhilarating ability to create it for ourselves and others at any given moment, in any circumstance.

“If you are happy and you know it, clap your hands.”

With blessings of inner contentment,

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: WALKING THE TALK

2008-09-11T20:28:00.000-07:00

I have just returned from my annual 9/11 chant for peace event — A 911 EMERGENCY CALL FOR PEACE. For seven years, this day has been used as a call to war. I want to reverse that energy and use it as a wake up call, to prod us to think, walk, talk, act for peace.

Our ceremony was moving and sweet. We blessed each other with Tap Roots Oil to honor the fact that we are rooted in each other. That we are the support and sustenance for each other. That we are rooted together in the Earth.

We burnt herbs to dispel all the negative energy that surrounds us. And invited in the sweet spirits of peace. And offered thanks for our lives.

I gave each participant two shamanic amulets: one, a tongue of fire (lengue de fuego) bean seed to help us speak our truth. Every since 9/11, there have been signs in the subway saying, “If you see something, say something.” Yes! We all see so much that is wrong. It is incumbent upon us to speak up. To speak our truth. To walk our talk. To put our money where our mouth is.

The other amulet was a crystal from the last ceremony that I performed at the World Trade Center. A crystal that had absorbed the sunlight of the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. It is reminder of the presence of light in the dark. A metaphor for the possibility of hope in despair.

I created a labyrinth of salt. As we each walked into the spiral carrying our seed and crustal, we focused on our intention for peace. In the center, we lit candles and made blessings and prayers for peace. As we walked back out from the middle, we thought of ways in which we might be the instruments of peace in our lives and in the greater world.

We chanted and chanted and chanted for peace — for the chance for peace. And by the end of the evening, we were awash in the glow of loving kindness. Our group was a living legacy of that original 9/11.

*

Seven years ago, when the planes flew into the Twin Towers, I was out of the country. It took me more than a week to be able to get past the sealed borders and return home. One thought consumed my mind during that agonizing week of separation from my house, pets, friends and the city that I loved. I craved to be of service to my community.

For 26 years, I had served New York City as an urban shaman. The New Yorker magazine had even dubbed me “the unofficial commissioner of public spirit of New York City. The World Trade Center had been the site of half of the seasonal celebration rituals that I had facilitated and so I was especially bereft at the loss of my public altar.

So in response to the terrible tragedy and in memory of all died that day, I undertook a “Walk Your Talk Pilgrimage.” One by one, I engaged the people whose paths I crossed: friends, the UPS man, the guard at the bank, the waitress at the coffee shop, the washing machine repairman, the people who actually live, work and love in New York City. We shared amazingly intimate, sweetly profound conversations that inevitably ended in a hug or an extra-firm handshake.

It was the human face of this tragedy and its resulting extraordinary state of affairs that I chose to focus on. I did not want to lose track of the myriad emotional and spiritual interconnections that people are capable of making — with each other, with their own best selves, with the greater universal good of all.

I experienced this kinder, gentler city the minute I got back to Brooklyn. A delivery guy was just leaving my building as I arrived home with all my heavy travel bags. When he saw me trying to wrestle them up the stairs, he ran to help me, thank goodness.

He wouldn’t accept a tip and insisted that he just wanted to help. When I asked him if all his relations were safe, he said that they were all fine, but that he felt terrible, because he wanted to do something to help. “You just did,” I reminded him. He was extremely pleased with the notion that this, too, was peace making.

On the way to the coffee shop with friends the next morning, I ran into my neighbor Monifa walking with another woman. We stopped right there in the middle of the street, traffic not withstanding. (And nobody honked.) "How are you?" "How are you?" "No one dead?" "Everyone OK?" We ran our eyes up and down each other looking for signs, for clues of damage. We all six embraced in relief and mutual comfort and then we introduced our selves to the ones in this circle who we didn’t know. We hugged first and asked names later! A sign, surely, of sanity in psychotic times. (And still nobody honked.)

I went to visit the 2nd Fire precinct in my neighborhood to pay my respects. The neighboring community had blanketed the sidewalk up and down the street with offerings of flowers, candles, cakes, tears and messages — one written on World Trade Center stationery and sent as a thank you for saving his life on that fateful day of reckoning.

I shook the hands of one traumatized but sturdy young man and thanked him. I engaged his misting eyes with my own and told him that I prayed that their dedication and sacrifice would be the foundation of a new way to live together as a world community. He locked my eyes and squeezed my hand and bit his quivering lip. He had seen quite enough of war, thank you very much.

At the bank I greeted the lobby guard as usual. I asked him if he was OK. “Not really,” he told me as his eyes filled with tears. His stepfather had been in the building. He escaped, but was shaken to the core. The guard (who I talk to practically every day and whose name I am ashamed to admit I do not know) said that he felt that his step dad would never be the same, like some Viet Nam vets whom he has known who will never be the same.

Then he confessed to me something remarkable. Actually, it was the most profound thing that I have heard anyone anywhere say on the subject of peace. “I hate my uncle,” he told me. “And I have hated my uncle for so long that now I hate anyone who looks like my uncle. ‘Why for you got to go look like my uncle?’ he quoted himself in his West Indian lilt. “Now I have to hate you.” He looked me right in the eyes and said that he realizes now how wrong that is. That he can no longer hate all uncle look-alikes. That he is now even working on trying not to hate his uncle.

I called Judith, one of my counseling clients, who was feeling particularly despondent. A nurse, she had immediately ran to one of the hospitals on Tuesday morning to lend a hand, but after the first batch of the injured passed through the emergency room there was no one else to help. She was desperate to move out of this place of feeling helpless. “I wish there was something that I could do.”

“You could call Linda,” I suggested, knowing that she had had a recent painful falling out with a good friend of hers. She allowed as she had known deep-down all along that in light of everything that has just happened, she should, she wanted to call. But she couldn’t. “Just do it, honey. Make peace.” And she did! And they did.

I witnessed an intense white light, an inner glow that emanated from the people of New York City during the weeks of my walking and talking. We had risen to an unthinkable occasion and we liked ourselves for doing so. We reached out to our neighbors and we found that we liked them, too. And everyone really liked how good it feels to feel good about themselves and each other. People want desperately to do right, to do good, to be good, to live right.

In the hardest of times, we managed to transcend what makes us human and embodied what makes us humane. We saw the putrid smoke of destruction burn clean with the spirit of true communion. We in our beleaguered town have tasted grace. We recognized it for what it is and we cherished living in its beneficence.

So many people have expressed to me their apprehension that as things returned to normal, people might lose some of their newfound consciousness of perspective and interdependence. But why go back there? What used to be normal didn’t really pan out all that well, it seems to me. That old normal isn’t nearly good enough for us who are divine and beautiful beings. Our challenge and our joy is to make this miracle of living in caring community be the new normal.

*

And tonight, seven years later, that vision was embodied in our dear, intimate, communal circle of chanting for peace. There IS still a chance for peace. We are that chance.

With blessings of harmony and helpfulness,

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: BEGIN AGAIN

2008-08-26T20:27:00.000-07:00

September always feels like New Year to me. It carries so much more significance than does January 1. The first crisp hint of a chill in the air always shakes me out of my summer lethargy, wakes me, makes me more alert. It focuses and concentrates my attention. I can smell the possibilities of a fresh start in the air.

Reinvigorated by the sunny days and laze of summer, life now begins again in earnest in schools, government agencies, cultural institutions and businesses across the country. There is an unmistakable aura of enthusiasm and energy in the air, a palpable sense of intensified determination. This annually renewed resolve seems so much more natural than the resolutions we make at the turn of the calendar year.

Fall jumpstarts everything, including itself. Labor Day has become the popular indicator of autumn, rather than the equinox, which occurs three weeks later. In the same way, Memorial Day, which predates the solstice by three weeks ushers in the civic summer season. By this reckoning, school starts in the fall, even though it is still summer.

Most of us have been indelibly imprinted with the excitement and optimism of the first day of school. There is nothing quite so inspiring as buying blank notebooks, pencils you have to sharpen yourself and some brand new white shirts. So clean, so fresh, so hopeful.

The Jewish New Year falls in the fall. My memories of the High Holy Days that I celebrated as a child with my family have little to do with organized religion. Rather, I remember a domestic sense of auspicious new beginnings: major house cleaning, usually a new outfit to wear to temple and, best, we ate off of the good china with the real silverware.

I think of my birthday as being in the fall, but it is actually four days before the equinox. Our birthday is our own personal New Year. It is an annual reunion that we have with ourselves, and attendance is required. Our birthday is our periodic opportunity to take serious personal stock. “How am I doing?” as Ed Koch, former mayor of New York City, would always ask. Like any new beginning, our birthday is an ideal time to sharpen our priorities, realign our perspective and rededicate ourselves to living the very best life that we can.

Every September I take time out of time to evaluate my past experiences and actions and to prepare myself mentally, physically and spiritually for the coming year. I usually retreat to some extent and fast to some degree during the two-week period surrounding my birthday. The new and full Harvest Moon, and the autumn equinox usually coincide.

This experience is intended to center me and slow me down. It is my birthday gift to myself. During my fast/retreat I devote myself completely to cleansing and centering myself: body, mind and spirit in readiness for the future. I rinse my system with fresh water and teas, I clean my house and altars and I use yoga, meditation and t’ai chi to flush my mind clear of the mental detritus that I have accumulated.

Since the early 1980’s, I have kept a birthday book. Therein, I ritually record an accounting of the past year. I process my impressions and my life lessons. How have I grown? What have I learned? And what is it that I just can’t seem to get through my thick skull? I plot my progress. I ponder my possibilities. I pour over my problems. I plan my goals.

This civic fall also marks the seven-year anniversary of September 11. Let us mark this poignant time by reflecting honestly upon our vulnerability in today’s terrifying political/economic climate, our culpability in the deadly repercussions that arise from our own chauvinistic attitudes and deeds, as well as our impressive individual and communal capacity for extraordinary acts of courage and devotion.

May this new season signal the beginning of a new era of planetary peace and plenty.

With blessings of best intentions and new beginnings,

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: LETTING GO OF ALL THAT DOES NOT SERVE

2008-08-16T12:15:00.000-07:00

I am doing a yard sale tomorrow. A GIGANTIC yard sale. I have been feeling an overwhelming urge to purge this past while. To clean out, throw out, release, discard. To distill and streamline all of my possessions.

This is a huge task, because I have many, many, all too many possessions. I didn’t always have too much. When I was 22, there was a fire in my apartment building, which I escaped in my pajamas. Everything else I owned was burnt, including one of my three cats. After the fire, I possessed literally nothing.

A manuscript of my writing was lost to the flames. It was ironically called Burnt Offerings. Among my most precious offerings were my grandmother’s jewelry and the exquisitely worked infant clothes that she had sewn for my mother, her girl baby. The fire also took my personal archive that used to be stored in my mother’s house before she did the Grand Purge: my scrapbooks, report cards, drawings, awards, photos, etc. The real important stuff.

The fire drove me out to First Street in my nightclothes and in total shock. Luckily, The Catholic Worker charity just happened to be across the street. I ran there barefoot and they gave me a pair of jeans, a pair of sneakers and a sweater. Now I owned three things.

The next day, I withdrew (with quite some difficulty, since I had no passbook or identification) my entire savings of $300. I went to a discount department store and bought underwear, toiletries and an outfit to wear to work. I paid for my purchases and left my wallet on the counter as I walked away, still in a daze. There was to be no more shopping till my next paycheck.

My boyfriend and I spent a couple of months in a Red Cross operated welfare hotel until we could save enough money to get an apartment, a furnished three room place in the Village where we lived for two years. Then I moved alone into a sublet loft for the next two years.

So when I moved into my new loft with my new boyfriend four years after the fire, I still owned next to nothing. I had a sleeping bag, an hibachi, which served as both a stove and a heat source, a box of books and a suitcase of clothes. Nothing else. Nada.

I have been avidly adding to my collections —furnishings, kitchenware, clothes, books, spiritual artifacts, art supplies, office paraphernalia, people, plants, pets —ever since. And now, 37 years later, I am moved to seriously edit and refine my needs and tastes. I want to be surrounded by only those things that are particularly special and meaningful to me.

It has become my practice to throw out, re-cycle, or donate one thing every day. This has been a great way to claim what is truly important to me and to discard what is not. But despite this daily ritual, I still am overwhelmed with accumulated items.

It seems to me that we spend the first half of our lives accumulating things and the second half getting rid of them, paring our possessions down to a manageable cache. This is prime time to check my baggage and lighten up my load.

With blessings of less, which sometimes really can be more,

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: BELLY DANCING

2008-07-28T20:18:00.000-07:00

My friend Kay is the official folklorist of Brooklyn. This winter she organized a month long Arab music festival. One of the evenings was a belly dance extravaganza, which I attended with my entire Goddess Group.

I was still on my cane following my fall a few months earlier, but that didn’t prevent me from getting up to swing my hips with everyone else during the participatory dance jam sessions in between the performer’s sets.

How could I stay in my seat? The music was so mesmerizing and the dancers so alluring. A sea of swaying, undulating arms, breasts and bellies, moving to the rhythms of the ages. That room was filled with fiery female energy. We were all, men and women alike, enveloped in the embrace of the Goddess.

“I want to learn how to belly dance,” I announced and Suzanne immediately said that she would take lessons with me. But I was hesitant about attending a class full of twenty-something skinny girls.

I really didn’t want to be the only zaftig mama old enough to almost be their grandmother in the bunch. But then, again, the Queen doesn’t deign to think such petty thoughts. Or does she?

Andrea, one of the women in one of my spirit support groups, a long time belly dancer who is twenty-something, lovely and lithe, directed me to the perfect class. A beginner’s class with women from their twenties to their sixties, every shape, size, color and aptitude.

And so, at the age of 62 I have taken up belly dance. Or perhaps I should say it has taken me up and held me in its thrall. It feels so natural, somehow. Sensual, earthy. elemental. Slightly sinful and delicious. It got my juices flowing big time.

I first saw belly dancing in Morocco thirty years ago. The women were
much older than me, mature and fleshy. Real women who had seen a lot of life and who knew a lot of things. Secure in their own power, they danced with assurance, and emanated an authoritative energy rather like Gypsy flamenco dancers.

Belly dancing gets better with age. My friend Serpentessa is an extraordinary belly dancer who performs with her snakes, She moves like the serpents who are her familiars. She is no spring chicken, but a luscious juicy autumn hen. My teacher’s teacher is coming to New York this fall to give classes in double veil technique. She is in her 80’s.

Last summer I gave a keynote address and workshop about The Queen at the International Goddess Conference in Glastonbury. On the last day there was celebration to honor the 90th birthday of Grand Dame Lady Olivia Robertson, founder of the Fellowship of Isis.

She appeared in a transparent gossamer toga-like garment, trailing veils and her long flowing white hair behind her. She danced slowly, with a concentrated reverence. Every movement was a prayer — in touch, intense and internal. Essential. Archetypal.

A ceremony to crown the Queens and the Crones followed Lady Olivia’s awesome dance. The mature women at the conference chose whether they were Queens or Crones.

There were maybe a hundred Queens sitting in a large circle and about a dozen Crones in a small circle inside of that royal round of Queens. The Maidens and Mothers sat outside of the circle and bore witness to the crownings. Nonagenarian Lady Olivia, Goddess bless her soul, insisted on being crowned a Queen. And so she is! It’s got to be the dancing.

With blessings of supple grace and grandeur,

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: AN ANGEL PASSES

2008-07-16T21:39:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I spent three days and nights with four very old friends in a lovely country house in Connecticut. We were there to help Sarah prepare for the annual fair on the village green that she directs - a huge endeavor with zillions of details to attend to. Just like my public ritual events.

On the night before the fair we stayed up to all hours preparing the descriptive cards for the silent auction. There we were, five midlife women up way after our bedtime, drinking white wine and trying to come up with snappy slogans for all 90 lots in the auction. Well I tell you!

We were completely slaphappy. Shouting out these ridiculous phrases in praise of Dottie’s Donuts, The Well Manicured Pet, and the Agway. Punning around shamelessly. We just laughed and laughed. Huge, full, deep belly laughs. “When was the last time,” I thought to myself, “that I have laughed so hard for so long?”

I actually remember when. It was at a wonderful brunch that I gave for six friends. Diane, who is always funny, was on a roll that day and kept us in stitches for hours. We laughed the entire afternoon away. It was last fall. Totally wonderful, but entirely too long ago.

I have known Sarah, Erica, Daile, and Kay for decades. They are beloved family for me. Yet I see them for food and fun so rarely. We live in different places and we are all always so busy. It was such a delicious joy to have so much uninterrupted quality time together. Being in their company was like being in the embrace of the Goddess, Herself.

My all time favorite film is Jules et Jim by François Truffaut. There is a beautiful scene in it where these two men, a woman and a child, a loving chosen family, are sitting around after a meal. They are sated and happy, comfortably quiet and content. Safe with each other. Out of the sweet silence Oscar Werner says, “An angel is passing.”

That is exactly how I felt in Connecticut. It was a perfect time. Nothing could ever feel better. An angel definitely passed that night.

Yours for love and laughter,

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: INTERDEPENDENCE DAY

2008-07-03T15:47:00.000-07:00

I was recently invited to address a gathering of clergy who are being trained to serve as resident chaplains in the pastoral care department of a major urban medical center. Specifically, they asked me to present the shamanic point of view of team building with an emphasis on creating alliances and community.

What a fascinating assignment. I immediately sat myself down to give some serious thought to the substance of their request. After much rifling through of books and files as well as several sessions of deep meditation on the topic at hand, I realized that there is no such thing.

From a shamanic point of view (as well as quantum scientific thought) separation is a false concept. It is redundant to think of reaching out to build teams, alliances, and communities, since we are already all connected, allied, joined together as one. The fact is there is no such thing as opposing sides.

There is only one side: just us folks, all of us everywhere, trying to live life as best we can, much more alike than different. There is no us and them. There is only us. We — all of us who occupy this planet: organic and inorganic; living and not; past, present, and future — are the world.

We come from our Mother Earth and return to Her belly. We are made of the same substance as the sea, the soil, the stars. There are, and ever have been, only so many molecules in existence, and all the rest — birth, growth, death, decay, development, change, evolution, transformation — is really just about recycling.

We breathe the same air as our cave-dwelling ancestors, continually inhaling and exhaling, trading carbon dioxide and oxygen with our plant relatives untold billions of times over the millennia. And the same holds true for water. We drink the tears of crocodiles and elephants. We wash in the drainage of the ages. It rains, it pools, it evaporates, it rains. We drink, we pee, we drink, we pee. Again and again and again in a grand scale cosmic round robin.

All borders and boundaries and separations are pure illusion. Each time we touch someone we leave some of our skin atoms behind and pick up a parcel of new ones in an intimate epidermal exchange. Thus we merge, quite literally becoming part of each other. I am you and you are me and we are we. We are all in this together, inextricably bound, riding on our beautiful blue planet through space and time. We are one team, one community, one world, one living, breathing entity. And the sooner we realize it, the happier, safer, and saner we will be.

Today we are surrounded by artificial division, manipulated resentment and fear-mongered anxiety. The real dynamic being played out right now is not about conflicting religious, economic or nationalistic factions. It is not even about war. The struggle is actually between those who believe that the world is defined in terms of contrast, of black and white opposition — good or evil, right or wrong, war or peace, with us or against us — and those who are able to see things in a more harmonious, holistic and congruent manner.

These are deciding times. It is imperative for those of us who perceive the big picture to make a concerted effort to reach out in ever-expanding circles of affinity, support, and empathetic embrace. Now is the time to create healthy, functioning networks in recognition and in honor of our mutual state of being and our common fate.

Let us come out of the cocoon closets of our isolated, separate selves and set our intentions on unity. Let us come together to make connections. To make friends. To make sense. To make art. To make amends. To make whoopy. To make time. To make magic. To make love. To make change. To make peace in our hearts and on the planet.

Let us project ourselves outward as cooperative partners; as interconnected members of our families, communities, species and world; as consciously coexistent inhabitants of our planet, and as conscientious co-creators of our combined future. Life on Earth depends upon our interdependent efforts.

Yours for a fabulous fourth of July,

xxMama Donna

The Queen’s Chronicles: WHY FRIDAY THE 13TH IS A VERY LUCKY DAY, INDEED

2008-06-12T17:36:00.000-07:00

When the 13th day on the month lands on a Friday, the culturally unfavorable attributes of each are multiplied by infinity. Friday, the day of original sin, the day Jesus died, the day of public hangings, in combination with 13, the number of steps on a gallows, the number of coils of rope in a hangman’s noose, the number of the Death card in the tarot deck, is indubitably designated as a day of portent
and doom.

The pitiful suicide note of a window washer that was found with his body in a gas-filled room at his home and quoted in a 1960 issue of the Yorkshire Post, underscores its powerful, popular reputation, "It just needed to rain today — Friday the 13th — for me to make up my mind." Poor sod.

But up until the patriarchal revolution, both Fridays and 13s were held in the very highest esteem. Both the day and the number were associated with the Great Goddesses, and therefore, regarded as the sacred essence of luck and good fortune. Thirteen is certainly the most essentially female number — the average number of menstrual cycles in a year. The approximate number, too of annual cycles of the moon. When Chinese women make offerings of moon cakes, there are sure to be 13 on the platter. Thirteen is the number of blood, fertility and lunar potency. 13 is the lucky number of the Great Goddess.

Held holy in Her honor, Friday was observed as the day of Her special celebrations. Jews around the world still begin the observance of the Sabbath at sunset on Friday evenings when they invite in the Sabbath Bride. Friday is the Sabbath in the Islamic world. Friday is also sacred to Oshun, the Yoruban orisha of opulent sensuality and overwhelming femininity, and Frig the Norse Goddess of love and sex, of fertility and creativity. Her name became the Anglo-Saxon noun for love, and in the sixteenth century, frig came to mean “to copulate.”

Friday the 13th is ultimately the celebration of the lives and loves of Lady Luck. On this, Her doubly-dedicated day, let us consider what fortuitous coincidences constitute our fate. The lucky blend of just the right conditions, chemistries, elements and energies, which comprise our universe. The way it all works. The way we are. That we are at all. That, despite whatever major or minor matters we might think are unlucky, we have somehow managed to remain alive and aware. This Friday the 13th, let us stand in full consciousness of the miraculousness of existence and count our blessings. Knock on wood.

With blessings of nectar and honey,

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: MY BEE CAME BACK TO SAY GOODBY

2008-06-07T12:51:00.000-07:00

For years, there has been a certain auspicious day every spring when a bumblebee would fly onto my terrace garden where it would hover contentedly everyday, all day long, throughout the entire summer, until a certain day in autumn when it would fly away.

This ritual visitation took place without fail for more than 15 years until a few years ago when my bee stopped showing up. I say “my bee.” But was it? Could it possibly have been the same bee for a decade and a half? How long to do bees live?

Or did my fuzzy fat friend select a successor who also passed the mantle when her vacation time was up? But whether or not it was the same bee, it was definitely my bee. My buddy. My constant summer companion. My nectar-gathering compatriot.

In Hellenistic Greece, bees were understood to be related to and a manifestation of the muse. My bee was an inspiration to me, as well, and I missed her visits dearly. And so did my flowers.

My bee isn’t the only one who stopped showing up. Millions upon millions of bees all over the world have been abandoning their hives and simply disappearing. Scientists named this mysterious phenomena colony collapse disorder.

If they are dying, they have chosen to do it in private, because large numbers of their corpses have not been found. Last year I found three dead bee bodies on the sidewalk just outside of my building. I saved their remains and added them to my growing collection of dead bumblebees. I keep my beautiful box filled with dead bees on my healing altar, where I pray for their wellbeing.

In some areas over sixty percent of the American honeybee population has died or disappeared during the past ten years, and this trend is continuing around the world. The potential results of this trend are terrifying. After all, one in three bites of all that we consume has been pollinated by bees.

In 1923 Rudolf Steiner predicted the dire state of the honeybee today. He said that within fifty to eighty years, we would see the consequences of mechanizing the forces that had previously operated organically in the beehive — including breeding queen bees artificially.

Well, I could have them that the Queens don’t take interference kindly. And now they are having their royal revenge — a terrible, drastic, exacting retribution, which maybe, just maybe, might force us to rethink our precarious relationship with Mother Nature.

Last week, my bee came back. I was completely delighted, overtaken by the depth and passion of my joy at our reunion. She hovered in front of my face for a moment then landed on my leg. And stayed there for a really long time, our bodies buzzing in unison.

Soon I noticed that she was uncharacteristically lethargic. Oh, no! Did she come back to die on me? I began to stroke her back ever so softly. I whispered prayers and gave her reiki. Then, because I had to leave, I placed her on the dirt of one of my flowering plants. If she was going to die, I wanted it to be in nature.

When I returned home a few hours later, the first thing I did was rush out to check on the bee, half expecting to see her lying on her back with her legs sticking up in the air.

But she was gone. Just gone.

“Like the bees from which this exhibition has drawn its name, we are individuals, yet we are, most surely, like the bees, a group, and as a group we have, over the millennia, built ourselves a hive, our home. We would be foolish, to say the least, to turn our backs on this carefully and beautifully constructed home especially now, in these uncertain and unsettling times.”
-The Museum of Jurassic Technology, Venice , CA

With blessings of nectar and honey,

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: TIME TO PLANT TREES

2008-05-20T20:55:00.001-07:00

Lately I’ve seen several outrageous television commercials that blithely extol the benefits of throwaway dust rags and floor mops and disposable baby bibs, of all things. Apparently the landfills are not yet filled to over-flowing capacity with pampers as I had assumed. As it is, every American uses an average of 4-6 trees a year on paper goods, wood products, and newsprint.

Knowing myself to be a concerned citizen and certified Queen of Reducing, Re-using and Recycling, I feel morally indignant in the face of such crass waste. The mere sight of The New York Sunday Times stacked in high piles at the newsstand fills me with queasy guilt. Heaven forbid I should buy one. I take my own bags to the grocery. I use cloth napkins and hankies and refuse to use paper towels. I’m the one who used the same paper bag for 65 days worth of coffees-to-go.

All well and good, but what have I done lately? What did I do today?
This is an important distinction: what did I do versus what did I not do. The issue is not how many trees did I save, but how many trees did I plant? I am 62-years old. That means that I should have planted 250-350 trees by now to replace those that I have used. While I have conducted quite a few tree-planting ceremonies over the years, I still owe the earth a new orchard, at least.

Maybe it is self-defeating to think that we should be giving up comforts and luxuries in order to be more environmentally correct and connected. Such negative terminology doesn’t make acting conscientiously seem like a very attractive prospect, but rather like some sort of deprivation that would appeal only to martyrs. That’s just bad psychology. Unproductive. The medicine does not have to taste bad in order to work well.

Perhaps it is more fruitful to think not of giving something up, but of giving something back. It is the most elemental and universal rule of etiquette that if you take something, you put it back; if you use something, you replace it — plus some. While saving and conserving are admirable virtues to be commended and encouraged, being generous and proactively responsive is equally crucial to our survival, body and soul. Take less. Give more.

It is pay back time. So I pledge to plant trees this Spring. As many as I can. Won’t you join me?

Let’s plant trees everywhere. In our gardens, inside our houses, throughout our parks and school-yards. Even those of us who live in the most crowded cement cities can join a community garden or participate in a park clean-up and planting day.

We can “buy” acres of rain forest to give as gifts or have trees planted in honor of all the special occasions celebrated by friends and family. We could adopt a neighborhood or a stretch of highway and help take care of it. Like a brigade of Green Guerilla Queens, we could spread out and scatter wildflower seeds in every vacant lot, strip, mall and avenue median. Just like Queen Lady Bird did.

With best vernal blessings,

xxQMD

The Queen’s Chronicles: TO ALL WHO HAVE BEEN BORN OF MOTHERS

2008-05-10T20:59:00.000-07:00

Mother's Day was originally started after the Civil War,
as a protest to the carnage of that war, by women who
had lost their sons.

The following is the original Mother's Day Proclamation
written by Julia Ward Howe in Boston, 1870:

"Arise, then, women of this day! Arise all women who have heart,
whether our baptism be that of water or tears!

Say firmly:
'We will not have our great questions decided by irrelevant
agencies. Our husbands shall not come to us, reeking with
carnage, for caresses and applause. Our sons shall not be taken
from us to unlearn all that we have been able to teach them of
charity, mercy and patience. We women of one country will be
too tender of those of another country to allow our sons to be
trained to injure theirs.'

In the name of womanhood and of humanity, I earnestly ask
that a general congress of women without limits of nationality
may be appointed and held at some place deemed most
convenient and at the earliest period consider with its objects
to promote the alliance of the different nationalities, the
amicable settlement of international questions, the great and
general interests of peace."

Let us take her eloquent plea for peace to heart. In the name
of all the mothers all through time beginning with the creatrix
Mother Goddesses and in the interest of our precious Mother Earth,
let us lend our voice, our time, our money, our energy and our
passion to the cause of peace on the planet.

xxYour Mama Donna

The Queen’s Chronicles: TIME FLIES

2008-05-05T20:22:00.000-07:00

I can’t believe that I didn't post at all last month. Where did April go? The weeks and months, it seems, just melted into each other. But each day seemed endless.

Last week I bumped into my neighbors Time and Andrea as I was out walking Poppy in the morning and they were leaving for work. We stood around talking for a few minutes, and then we each proceeded with our day. It was a long and tiring day — for me, at least. Filled with work and play, spirit and pleasure.

Late that same evening, I was out with the dog and once again saw Tim and Andrea as they were getting home from work, dinner, and a couple of sets at a music club. Again, we hung around and chatted. I said something like, “When I saw you guys last week…” And Tim said, “that was this morning!”

How could that be? It seemed like forever ago. Time is such a slippery scoundrel. It is impossible to pin it down long enough to grab hold of it. It just keeps slithering away.

Time is a paradox, at once temporary and permanent, external and internal, objective and subjective. And it is so confusing. Days that are weeks long and filled with 10,000 things. Weeks, which seem like seconds, fleeting and ephemeral.

"When you sit with a nice girl for two hours, it seems like two minutes. When you sit on a hot stove for two minutes, it seems like two hours that's relativity."
-Albert Einstein

Time flies and time stands still. Time passes, but is forever. Time creates. Time maintains. Time destroys. I save time, I waste time, I keep time, I lose time, I kill time, I make time, I take time out.

Time is a sneak thief, hell bent on racing toward my mortality, so I will do all I can to outsmart it by savoring every precious moment, by being conscious, focused, and conscientious in each second. By being here now.

Blessings of eternity,

xxMama Donna

The Queen’s Chronicles: SPRING HAS SPRUNG AND SO HAVE I

2008-03-24T21:31:00.000-07:00

Well, I am fine. Out and about and as good as new. Whew ! That was a long haul. But now I am finally finding my way back to my body again and doesn’t it feel fabulous.

Before my famous fall I had started to wear a pedometer with the goal of walking at least 10,000 steps a day, which is recommended for optimum fitness. When I first crawled out of my convalescent bed I put the pedometer back on and measured my first attempts at hobbling about. I could only handle around 400 steps a day.

Now, a month later, I am doing 10-11,000 steps every other day. I walk every morning — in the park if I possibly can. Starting the day in nature, walking through the woods and along streams sets me up for the entire day. It is more nourishing than breakfast.

In a couple of weeks I will get back to my water aerobics class. It is still too cold. Even though the pool is indoors and the gym is quite warm and everyone else in the class (all of whom are older than me) manages to get there rain or shine or snow, I just can’t seem to be able to rouse myself from my flannel sheets to go jump in the water.

But my excuses are almost over. As soon as the weather warms up to the 50’s I’ll be there. The water movement will be great for strengthening and stretching my weakened and stiff muscles. Besides, it is fun and I love it. And I can have a sauna afterward.

Yoga is another story. I am craving the forward bends and stretches and sometimes stop in the middle of working to bend down to my toes and just hang out, as it were, for a minute or so. It releases tension and feels like a mini vacation.

But it really hurts to stand on my knees for any of the table positions or the child pose. Even so, I will start to do some of my yoga tapes and skip the parts I can’t do.

Last week I went to a belly dance extravaganza. The music is so mesmerizing and invigorating and the dancers were so sensual and lithe, it made me want to take lessons. My friend Suzanne said that she would take them with me, which is great because without her I would be the only chubby middle aged woman among all the young sprites. Now we will be two Queen goddesses!

I have never, NEVER been an active, athletic person, but something about having been injured and immobile for so long has lit a fire under me. And for the first time in my life I have wanted to exercise, move, groove. What fun!

The Queen’s Chronicles: MORE LESSONS OF THE FALL

2008-02-19T20:33:00.001-08:00

just when the power of positive thinking
had me thinking i had some control
i got knocked to my knees by a hot dog wagon.
not flattened not thrown not knowing what hit me
just knocked to my knees and forced to bow down.
—DH 1974

This is the 10th week after the fall and I am pretty much back together again. While I was fortunate not to have had a more serious injury from my December fall, my convalescence has been quite slow, nonetheless. Shocking, really, just how slow. This winter has been a long and leisurely one during which I completely hibernated. I concentrated on healing myself and also worked to understand and integrate the many-layered lessons of the fall.

Gratitude, first and foremost, was Lesson Number One. While normally I am quite conscious of my appreciation for my life and living, everyone’s attitude of gratitude can stand a periodic upgrading.

I fell at home in my own office, rather than somewhere out on the road during all my travels of the past three years. Cookie was there and helped me instantly. I was nursed and massaged and reikied and shiatsued and reflexed, accupunctured and blessed, and materially supported in every possible generous manner.

Grateful hardly expresses how I felt. I celebrated every tiny victory of movement and mobility as a dramatic miracle. I was ever so thankful for each small pleasure. The first time I could roll over in bed! Hurray! The first time I could bend my leg! The first time I could put on my own sock! The first time I left the walker and used a cane! The first time I took the dog out! The first time I walked around the block! And this morning when I left the house for the first time without my cane! Life is such a miracle. I am eternally grateful to be part of it.

Miracles seem to rest, not so much upon
faces or voices or healing power coming
suddenly near to us from far off, but upon
our perceptions being made finer so that
for a moment our eyes can see and our ears
can hear that which is about us always.
—Willa Cather

Beyond the parameters of this particular incident, I was reminded of how much I love this world — life, nature, creatures, comforts, beauty. Just how precious and tenuous it all is. In light of September 11th and this horrible war, we are all struggling to keep that crucial 911 emergency lesson foremost in our minds at all times. How important it is to raise and praise the universal spirit at every turn. Be Here Now. Live Life. Be Great and Full. Thank All Goodness.

When I first landed on the floor, I thought that I would just sit there for a few seconds, catch my breath and then continue with my packed agenda. I would shoulder through, like always. But within minutes of the fall it became painfully — excruciatingly — obvious that there was no way that I could possibly carry on as normal. I had fallen down on the job, as it were, and my only option was to sit still.

Letting Go, Lesson Number Two, was an insistent, obstinate, merciless task-mistress who would accept nothing less than total vulnerability, absolute humility, and hopefully at the end of the day, some measure of grace.

I do not understand the mystery of grace —
only that it meets us where we are, but
does not leave us where it found us.
—Anne LaMott

Asking for Help, Lesson Number Three, always a hard one for me, became much easier after I allowed myself to let go of all those macho martyr assumptions that I perpetrate upon myself. Such as thinking I can be a bottomless source of never-ending energy without ever having to replenish my own reserves. Such as feeling — like so many caregivers, healers, and light workers do — that everyone else’s needs must be dealt with before my own, me being in the line of service, after all. Such as resisting well meant offers of assistance.

Before the fall, if someone volunteered to give me a massage, I would invariably demure. “Thanks so much. I really appreciate it, but that’s O.K.” Meaning what? That I didn’t need anything? That I didn’t deserve anything? Now, during my winter of healing, I was becoming able to over-ride my ego and say, “Yes, please, I do need help. I am in trouble here. Thank you so much. I am so grateful”

Learning How to Attend to My Own Requirements and Boundaries and how to take as loving good care of myself as I do of others is Lesson Number Four. I have been struggling to learn this lesson for decades. It is clearly my Life Lesson. I keep thinking that I have learned it. But then something comes along to remind me how much more I have to improve. I have managed quite well over the years to sustain myself spiritually, mentally, and emotionally. It is on the material and physical plane that I tend to fall down, as it were. As the I Ching, the Chinese Book of Changes has reminded me time and time again over the past thirty years, “Feed the cow.” How else can the poor dear give milk, after all?

So, the lessons contemplated and understood, if not yet completely integrated, I emerge from my accident determined to heal myself for once and for all. It is time. I cannot continue to push myself beyond the max. I definitely can’t keep falling.

I acknowledge that though I am most definitely a Queen, I am not omnipotent. That I do need help from time to time. That I do have needs and that I need to honor and enforce them. That in addition to being Mama Donna to the world, I need to be mother to myself, as well.

I promise myself to respect my limitations of strength, energy, time, and resources. I promise to continue to be grateful for each breath that allows me to live this precious life and to value it in its entirety. And most important of all, I pledge to allow myself to sit down occasionally, to lie down, even, so that I don’t have to fall down to get some rest.

L’Chaim,

xxQueen Mama Donna

The Queen’s Chronicles: ASHES, ASHES, ALL FALL DOWN

2008-02-05T21:34:00.000-08:00

The emails responding to my fall keep coming in. And so so many many of them relate stories of their own recent falls. The number is staggering. What is going on? It is like the ground is being pulled out from under our feet.

These are women and men from all over the country and beyond. Is there a common denominator that connects us? Is this a general trend? What is going on?

Well, there does seem to be a connection. I did notice that almost to a person, everyone on this list is either a spiritual practitioner/healer or an artist of some sort. We are all cultural creatives, out-of-the-box thinkers, visionaries, empaths, seers.

We are the first responders. And, with our world so seriously out of whack, there is a lot to respond to these days. We are surrounded by unhealthy, unstable, toxic conditions. There is so much pain and suffering, exploitation and domination on our poor beleaguered planet.

And we tend to take it all in. To take it upon ourselves to fix, to transform whatever/whoever needs help. Whenever. We are overwhelmed. We are exhausted. Is it any wonder we are shaky on our feet?

Here are some of the letters. What do you think is going on?

I am writing because I have fallen twice in the past month, and that is HIGHLY UNUSUAL. I have been feeling less sure-footed and "out of the flow" just enough to have it be on the front burner of my awareness. Therefore, when you wrote that others in your circle have reported falling lately, and it peaked your curiosity, I couldn't resist writing and introducing myself. So, thank you for your New Year reminder of the importance that we be solidly grounded. I am adding that to my intentions.
-Susan, CA

I wanted to let you know that I also fell a month ago in the kitchen of the Harrisburg Unitarian Church. Yes, I do need to be more centered. There were many healers on hand when I fell. I have recovered with much help also. Aren't sisters great? Peace,
-Randa, PA

I know how you must feel since I fell on ice a few weeks ago and tore tendons in my shoulder and rotator cuff. It's been very painful.
-Vince, NY

As you mention the trend of many of us falling, I have to report that my best friend in Florida took a tumble (for no apparent reason), broke her arm and hand in three places and had two surgeries. After reading your note, I stopped and recalled that I've fallen (flat out down on the ground — and once rolling) three times in the past six months. Every time, I've gotten up, stunned that I'd not gotten seriously hurt. Not even a bruise. Blessed be.
-August, CA

Funny thing, the likelihood of falling again, whether spiritually or physically, is sometimes great if you don't watch your footing along the path. I stumble quite a bit myself with my head in the clouds and all. Just the other day I was so taken with the beautiful deer in my backyard, I fell right out the backdoor....geeeez....right smack dab on my keester. It wasn't a graceful fall either. First the ankle went sideways, the elbow hit the siding twisting the arm as I tried to stop myself and then the whole body went into this type of goofy mode as I continued my descent to the concrete. It was quite a sight to behold. Needless to say, I was sore for a couple days but not too bad. Thank Goddess for extra padding in the caboose!
-Kimi, NJ

This Mars retrograde causing accidents, especially when combined with anger, speed and fatigue. It is opposing Pluto for the next couple of days and we all should be careful. I fell on my right shoulder 3 times between April and July and was very injured. I had a slight fall this afternoon as well. I am going to be very careful for the next month, especially the next few days.
-Nan, TX

My brother-in-law in Rochester, NY, fell two weeks ago today and broke 3 ribs. Needless to say, he's been in quite a bit on discomfort & pain. However, your words about people falling reminded me, too, that I've been hearing a lot about peoples' falls. Lots of them. Certainly will pass that "awareness" along & remind folks to slow down and be careful.
-Pam, NY

I also have tripped and fallen a lot of times this year, and I now go downstairs like an old lady. I also fell going up the stairs near the swimming pool and I injured a rib. Very painful and it took 6 weeks to heal! Also still have a lump on knee from another fall! With me I think it is that I forget to lift my legs enough. But it must be a common occurrence in "Older" people, because we got a leaflet through the door the other day, which invited us to come to a meeting (of old age pensioners!) to learn how to avoid falling! Yuck!
-Bé, England

I just fell down the stairs and hurt my back.
-Emma, NY

My friend’s husband, a young man, fell down the stairs on his way to work. He broke is neck and died instantly. What a tragedy.
-dava, VA

I just tripped over my dog and broke both arms.
John, FL

I was so sorry to read about your fall, then I had one, too — in the darkest dark, out checking to see if the car was locked, slipping on a wet rock, going down on my tail bone. Now I am on drugs and a walker for 8-10 weeks and it hurts.
-Jo, AZ

Having taken several nasty falls myself (the last of which entailed a 3-day hospital stay due to fractured ribs and a collapsed lung), I know how painful recovery can be. And I know how frustrating immobility can be! Active minds demand active bodies.
Smoky, IL

Thanks for this post about slow life
Hmmmmmmmm
I just fell last week
Toooooooooooooooo muchhhhhhhhhhhhhh everything
Sending rest & love to usssssssssssssss
-Linda, NY

Funny — I fell walking my friend's dog and sprained my ankle. I put too much ice on it and got burns and also cracked my left pinky finger — now taped together. I am in constant pain and will take months to recover. Yes, my friend also fell on black ice upstate — sad — she is in lots of pain. Don’t know if it is cosmic or what, but so many of my friends have been falling also. Wonder what these falls mean? Please pray for me too. Thanks.
-Naomi, NJ

We are fragile in such funny ways. So strong and then, our bodies... I am taking care of my mother. She fell walking home and fractured her kneecap. She is 89.
-Annie, MA

I too fell the other day, on my knee, outside. Maybe bad weather for priestesses. I'm certain it's karmic.
Marion, NY

I know what it is to fall and sprain/break things, having experienced it myself not too long ago. This may be an astrologically prone time for falling, because Gail's brother-in-law AND her sister both fell within one day of each other, one broke his femur and the other her arm and wrist.
-Charoula, OH

Thanks for reminding us to stay grounded. I, too, have heard about people falling down.
-Sheryll, CA

Very strange point about many others falling. My mother has been experiencing this to the point where she's been going in for all kinds of tests to find out what's wrong.
-Lauren, NJ

I am so glad you are recovering and taking a moment of rest. I think the cosmic effect of so many falling is just that. Slowing us all down a beat.
-Ra-el, CA

We're thrilled to hear you are doing much better. Your accident gave you an opportunity to receive love and healing exclusively, instead of giving it all the time. If there are people in your circle who are also falling, it is probably because (like attracts like!) they are also generous, loving, giving people who needed to be forced to sit still and receive love, nurturing and healing. Does it make sense now?
Love, peace and blessings,
Marcy, NY

And here is a lovely affirmation from a reader that I would like to share with you:

I, Queen Mama Donna (Insert your name here.)
keep my feet firmly planted
in the love I have for myself
and the love others have for me.
I am always steady on my feet.
When I fall, I fall only into love.
-Rev. Deborah L. Roberts, WI

With blessings of balance,

xxQueen Mama Donna

The Queen’s Chronicles: LESSONS OF THE FALL

2008-01-22T17:49:00.000-08:00

Well, it has been quite a ride since my fall. Or, to be more precise, it has been a non-ride, a total no-go for nearly two months.

To make a long, painful convalescence short, I have had an enforced period of rest and slow living, which I have so desperately needed for a very long time. Which is probably why I fell in the first place. My body really needed to sit down and stay put for a while. For weeks on end, as it turned out.

I have had quite a few nasty falls in my adult life, five this year alone. Some people fall ill when they are overworked and overwhelmed. I just fall. Fall down on the job, as it were. I keep keeping on until I am standing on my last leg which can no longer support me. And so then I fall.

Clearly the lesson is in learning my own limitations. In honoring my own exhaustion. In slowing down for a change. In stopping while I am still standing. In being kind and indulgent to my Self. In respecting my royal prerogative to rest when I feel like it.

Sound familiar?

We Queens live lives enriched by our own hard won sense of purpose, passion and power. We live in an expanded universe of possibility as we strive to fulfill our own best potential, and at the same time further the causes that we promote for the good of all.

We hold positions of influence and responsibility. We are directed and enthusiastic. We are excited and charged. We are also, some of us, driven. There is, after all, so much to do and so little time. We are raring to go. And go. And go. And keep right on going.

My dear, regal sisters, we mustn’t allow ourselves to get carried away by busyness. (Do you hear me, Queen Mama Donna?) It is so easy for the demands of the outer world to lure us away from our essential Selves, to sever us from our own inner center of gravity.

This internal/eternal Self is what gives us our energy, our inspiration and our moral authority. If we lose contact with our soul being, we lose our balance, our perspective and our effectiveness. We lose everything.

We must, for the sake of our Selves, for the sake of each other, for the sake of our entire beleaguered planet, make our Self-care become a priority. Let us take the time to nap, to meditate, to walk under the trees, to stare out the window. Time to be. There is so much at stake.

We must be vigilant Queens, unrelenting in the defense of the sanctity and sovereignty of our own Self-concern — physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual — if we are to be fit, wise and worthy enough to rule our domains.

May we enter this new year with both feet on the ground, firmly rooted and steady. May we stand in our center, unshakeable.

The Queen’s Chronicles: FALL DOWN GO BOOM

2008-01-01T19:46:00.001-08:00

One month ago today I fell in my office. I don't know what happened. Falling is a funny (though definitely NOT humorous) thing. One minute you are going about your business and the next, you are on the floor.

As I crashed down, I heard an ominous POP. Luckily, my dear assistant was here. And also luckily, I was able to see my acupuncturist right away. I did not break anything, but I tore my psoas muscle. I never even knew I had one. Never heard the word before. But I learned that it is a very major muscle, one of the largest in the body. It encircles the lower torso like a girdle and connects the pelvis, hips and spine. Essentially, it holds the upper and lower parts of the body together.

The first thing everyone asked was whether I had broken anything. I might have been better off if I had. Apparently, an injured muscle is much more painful and takes much longer to heal than a broken bone. Indeed, the pain in my groin and sciatic region has been excruciating.

I have been seeing my acupuncturist regularly and have received some miraculous energy healing, as well as reiki and homeopathic remedies. These have all helped enormously, but mainly what was and still is needed is total rest. I used a walker for a couple of weeks, which made it easier to get to and from the bathroom, but I stayed in bed most of the time.

Every day brought a small (SMALL) improvement in terms of pain and also range of motion. I am grateful, because I am a zillion times better now, but I still hurt when I step on my right leg and am exhausted by every step I attempt. After 4 weeks, it is clear that this will be a long haul to total recovery of my mobility.

My healers tell me that I need at least another week of serious bed rest and I am glad to comply, because I do feel like I need it. But the good news is that I have been hobbling without the walker and use the cane less and less. So all of the rest and treatments have been working marvelously. And by next week, I should be up and about in some fashion — surely not at my usually intensity, but I will not be bedridden any more!

I am overwhelmed with the tremendous support that I received this month. When word went out about my accident, my spiritual communities — my students, clients, readers, and colleagues came through for me both spiritually and physically in so many wonderful ways.

I received thousands of emails and cards from all across the country as well as Canada, England, Spain, Greece, Australia, and Iceland, which cheered me no end. Also, poems and prayers to inspire me, lots of great advice as to healing modalities, gifts of ointments
and oils and liniments, long distance reiki and healing, and money to help defray all the costs in a month when I could not work.

How can I ever express the depth of my gratitude? Your love and support humbles me and makes me so proud.

I did notice something troubling in all the emails that I have been receiving. So many of you have also been falling of late. An amazing number of you have been tumbling down and receiving a wide array of injuries of your own. Is this cosmic? I don't know. But I want to
suggest that we all be a little more aware, a little more careful, a little more centered as we negotiate our lives.

These are disorienting and troubling times and we need to be solidly grounded. The world needs us to be strong and healthy — ready, willing, and able to care for ourselves, each other, and our poor precious planet.

I send blessings of gratitude and healing to you all. May we enter this new year with both feet on the ground and our ideals and ethics, our prayers and blessings, our best intentions of love and peace soaring above in heavenly majesty.

xxMama Donna

The Queen’s Chronicles: SOUP FOR THE SOUL

2007-12-04T11:42:00.000-08:00

I am so glad and grateful to be snug at home during these two darkest weeks of the year. At the Winter Solstice, the sun returns to the northern hemisphere and the days will become incrementally longer. So, the two following the solstice will be equally dark, but the energy will be different. We will be beginning to emerge from the dark. Right down we are descending ever further down into it.

In the stark dark of the season in the dark of the long night we are compelled to turn inward toward the center. Drawn by an irresistible magnetic force, we are pulled inside of ourselves, inside of our homes, inside of our relationships for the comfort, warmth, love, safety and peace that we seek.

Because it is difficult to see in the dark, our other senses are awakened and called into action to guide us through the gloom. If we pay careful attention, we can smell and taste the flavors of excitement, affection and creativity and. If we listen very carefully, we can hear the buzz of life that surrounds us and if we keep still enough, we can feel the energizing charge that radiates throughout the universe warming us from within.

But we need to dig deep to feel the heat just now. The sun is absent. The air is chilled. The Earth, Herself, is cold as death. The only heat left is locked deep inside the molten core in the middle of our deepest selves.

The heart is the center of our being. It is the buried treasure that rewards us when we dare to travel the dark tunnels that lead to the essence of our soul. It is the furnace from which radiates the heat, the power and passion of our lives. The heart is the most honest manifestation of our authentic self. The seat of our heart’s desire, the grace that lies at the heart of all that matters.

The hearth is the heart of the home. It is the high altar of the art and craft of living. Its central heat fuels the most basic and most profound daily rituals of nurturing, sustenance, support and cheer. The hearth stokes the healthy spirit that comes from physical ease and emotional fulfillment.

My home hearth calls me so insistently these days. “You are home with us,” it cries with joy. “Come cook!”

And cook I have. I made a surprisingly super-luscious coq au vin. Surprising, because I had never made this dish before and I just sort of made it up, guided by my longing for blissful candle-lit home-cooked dinners. I made zucchini in tomato sauce, which I froze in small containers in anticipation of future zucchini pastas and omelets and zucchini au gratin.

But I mainly made soup. Great pots of lentil, black bean, mushroom barley and cabbage soup. My freezer is full of single-and-double-portion-size jars of soup. And I am not souped out yet. Still on my to do list are chili, chicken ginger spinach, chicken vegetable, Scotch broth, cram of tomato, and gumbo. I am a kitchen goddess concocting potions and brews and spells of happy home and hearth and heart.

Let us all use this time of darkness well. Let us explore our hearts and souls for the insight, inspiration and enlightenment that we may find there. Let us worship at the domestic shrine and share the holy sacraments of soup and stew, mulled cider and cocoa. Let us open our hearts and our homes to all of the possibilities of love. Let us create peace in our hearts, in our homes and in the world.

The Queen’s Chronicles: HARVESTS OF GRATITUDE

2007-11-21T20:34:00.000-08:00

To all my dear ones,

When the going is good and the living is easy it seems only natural to be thankful. But what about all those times when nothing seems to flow? When energy is blocked and life flows like a river of glue.

When we are stuck in the rush hour traffic jam of dailiness and our bodies and souls start to feel like banged up bumper cars? When things seem so crazy and out of whack that we wonder what do we have to be thankful for?

“Well,” as my dear friend Daile once wisely and calmly commented in the midst of a work disaster that would normally have driven her mad, “at least nobody died.” That's it, exactly. Perspective.

The trick is to be able to maintain a healthy perspective. If we can manage to do that, we will automatically enjoy a perpetual attitude of gratitude.

People who have themselves been ill and those who caretake others have earned a certain understanding of this point of view. Everything is relative (in both senses of that word). For most of us, though, it is a daily, hourly, minutely learned lesson — one that we tend to forget in the flurry.

Here is a moving meditation to help us remember:

Take a walk someplace nice. Alone.

With each step you take, name one good thing that you have in your life. Say this aloud or silently.

Step.
My health.
Step.
My love.
Step.
My dog.
Step.
My network of circles.
Step.
The clouds.
Step.
The beautiful moon.
Step.
Trees.
Step.
A new friend.
Step.
That certain memory.
Step.
Not knowing war.
Step.
A secure home.
Step.
Two feet.
Step.
My heart, my soul, my spirit.

The list is endless.

Gratitude boundless.

Thank Goodness!

I am especially thankful for all the heartwarming support you showed me this year and expressed in so many wonderful ways. You bought my books. Thank you. You came to my workshops. Thank you. You forwarded my messages to your own circles of friends and family. Thank you. You wrote me amazing letters filled with spirit and soul. Thank you.

I would have to walk the entire length of the Great Wall of China in order to name each great gift that I received from you. Thank you all so, so much.

With bountiful blessings of fulfillment and peace,

xxQueen Mama Donna

The Queen’s Chronicles: HOME SWEET HOME

2007-11-16T20:52:00.000-08:00

I’m home. I’m HOME. I’M HOME!!!

I have been on the road on and off for the past three years. Never home for more than six weeks at a time. Always off to another talk, another bookstore appearance, another workshop.

Mind you, I am not complaining. I have been to some great places and met thousands of incredible women. I’ve seen lots of lovely sights, had many amazing conversations and shared the spirit in some extraordinary rituals.

But I have packed and unpacked and repacked one bag too many!

Now I am home for the entire winter. I don’t have any travel plans until late March when my spring schedule intensifies and takes me to Pennsylvania and then Massachusetts, Northern California, and the Pacific Northwest. Which means that I will be home for almost five months until then. Which is perfect, as I hate to travel in winter and I love to hibernate and nest. What bliss!

All I want to do for a while is cook and clean and transplant my plants. Putter around my house and dance to my favorite CDs. File all the loose papers in the piles on my desk. Write in my journals and do some creative work. Take long walks and longer baths.

I used to do these things all the time as a matter of course. But my travel schedule came to dominate my existence. I was always either away, preparing to go away or recovering from having been away.
This made having a balanced, relaxed life here in NYC very difficult. Let alone having a social life like a normal person.

But now that I am back, I am reconstructing a life rich with the pleasures of communion and conviviality. Already this week I found time to have tea with two lovely women. Tomorrow I will host a small party for my dear Blessing Band. And Sunday I will make a beautiful brunch for eight.

Is life paradise or what? I am so happy to be home.

The Queen’s Chronicles: BLESSINGS OF PEACE AT HALLOWEEN AND BEYOND

2007-11-05T15:42:00.000-08:00

This year I was invited to lead the world famous Greenwich Village Halloween Parade with blessings. As the Grand Marshall it was my duty and privilege to walk ahead of the parade and bless the streets, transforming them from their secular purpose into spiritual pathways. In addition, I was called upon to bless the participants of the parade as well as the inhabitants of the city.

This was an amazing opportunity to spread positive energy on an extremely large scale. About 30,000 people walked in the parade and two million more lined the parade path. The NYC Halloween Parade is one of the 10 biggest tourist events in the world! And of course, about eight million folks actually live here.

Joining me in this honorable endeavor was my magnificent Blessing Band of 30 wonderful individuals who are deeply earnest in their desire to extend blessings of peace and positive community spirit to New York City and beyond every chance we get.

We walked ahead of the parade for the entire route, blessing as we went. We were dressed entirely in white and silver to emphasize the purity of our intentions. Since this was not a performance, but a real ritual, we were not wearing masks or elaborate face paint, as we wanted our eyes and facial expressions to convey the sincerity of our serious, yet joyous, mission.

Our blessings were offered with smudge, or burning sacred herbs, which I call, “holy smoke.” In addition, we used bells, bubbles, glitter, and energetic chanting to spread our blessings. We shared blessings of peace, blessings of good will, blessings of community relationships, blessings of safety, blessings of protection, blessings of peace, and blessings of love.

The experience was amazing. As we passed by chanting “Blessings!” folks along the sidelines reached out their hands and bowed their heads so we could bless them! Monsters and devils, nurses and cartoon characters, ghosts and super heroes, alike, thanked us for the blessings and offered theirs back to us in the hundreds of languages and dialects spoken in New York. I blessed all the police in the street for their patience and good humor and was duly rewarded by hundreds of grins.

Such an enormous crowd. And so incredibly diverse. Yet there was only laughter and smiles and blessings and joy. Not one drunk or belligerent person. Not one incident. Not one disturbance of the peace. The only wild behavior was evidenced as creativity and ecstatic good humor. But that is typical here in the Big Apple.

When ever I am away somewhere lecturing or leading workshops, someone will inevitably ask me why I choose to live in New York City where “there is no nature.” I always respond by saying that in New York, the wildlife is the people. And I mean that in every sort of respectful, positive way. Think of the mouth-watering variety of food, music, costume, and custom here. I just adore riding the subway, watching the folks read their newspapers and realizing that every paper along the line is in a different language!

People from nearly 200 counties, having a full palette of beliefs and backgrounds, manage to live and work together in New York City in admirable peace. As huge and diverse and broken down as it is here, everybody pretty much gets along. And I am pleased as punch and very proud to be part of it.

I have given programs on multicultural ritual celebrations in schools where there are 65 nationalities represented in the student body. In a typical classroom an Egyptian boy sits next to a Korean girl who sits next to a Guatemalan boy who sits next to a pretty girl from Azerbaijan who was wearing a veil just months before. And they all get along very well. Their mutual immigrant experience connects them together and they relate.

And when they are old enough, they date. Those segregationists in the 1960’s were right when they said that if kids go to school together they will inevitably fraternize and worse. Hormones are color blind, you see, and they are responsible for a beautiful, brave new world that is developing right in font of our eyes. Living New York City is an experiment in the future. And it works. What is more, if we can do it here, it can be done anywhere.

There is still a chance for peace on this poor beleaguered planet.

The Queen’s Chronicles: BLESSING HALLOWEEN

2007-10-31T06:52:00.000-07:00

Tonight I will be leading the famous Greenwich Village Halloween Parade with blessings. This is an amazing opportunity to spread positive energy on a very large scale. About 30,000 people walk in the parade and two million will line the parade path. The NYC Halloween Parade is one of the 10 biggest tourist events in the world!

Joining me in this honorable endeavor is my marvelous Blessing Band of wonderful individuals who are deeply earnest in their desire to extend blessings of peace and positive community spirit to New York City.

We will be walking ahead of the parade for the entire route, blessing as we go. We will be dressed all in white an silver to emphasize the purity of our intentions. Since this is not a performance, but a real ritual, we will not be wearing masks or elaborate face paint, as we want our eyes and facial expressions to convey the sincerity of our mission.

Our blessings will be with smudge, or holy smoke, as well as bells, bubbles, glitter and spirited chanting. We will share blessings of peace, blessings of good will, blessings of community, blessings of safety, blessings of protection, and blessings of love.

Please join us in sending out blessings to those who will be in attendance, to all our loved ones, to our cities, to our country, to our world community, and to our precious planet.

Read about this:
http://gothamist.com/2007/10/31/donna_henes_urb.php
http://www.thevillager.com/villager_234/urbanshaman.html

Be blessed!

The Queen’s Chronicles: THE QUEEN’S ADVENTURES IN THE SOUTH

2007-10-30T17:58:00.000-07:00

I am just back from a two-week trip Through Virginia and North Carolina with The Queen of My Self.

I started with a wonderful workshop at The Creative Healing Institute in Fairfax, VA. Thanks so much to Queen dava money who organized the event and proved herself to be a wonderful hostess. It was an intensely layered day with a group of women who were open and so honest in their sharing.

Then I went on to tour Yogaville with my guides, the lovely Letitia and William Swain. What an amazing spiritual community this is with an extraordinary Lotus Shrine to all the religious faiths in the world. This multicultural, nondenominational tribute was very inspiring and fed my devotion to such eclectic, ecumenical spirituality. Thanks to the Swains for their generous hospitality.

On to the mountains in west of North Carolina. A quick stop in Asheville to sign some books at Malaprop’s Bookstore, then I was back on the road. When I left home, the trees in New York hadn’t started to change yet, but as I climbed into the mountains, I drove right into a Technicolor fall. How gorgeous. The elevation was just high enough to produce fantastic foliage. I followed the winding mountain roads as they snaked in and out of North Carolina, Tennessee and Georgia. Each hairpin turn took me further into the color.

I spent two delightful days with nearly 50 women at their Unitarian Universalist WomenSpirit Institute at The Mountain Retreat Center in Highlands, NC. I was proud to have been chosen the special guest presenter for this, their 20th anniversary gathering. We had an amazing all day workshop, which ended by crowning lots and lots of new Queens, each Queen wearing a crown of her own making. Each woman was more lovely and spirited than the next, and once again I was overwhelmed with just how wonderful we women are.

The last Queen event was in New Bern, NC where Queen Nancy Pocklington hosted a workshop at her massage center. Not only did she gather a great group of women, she served us a fantastic homemade vegetarian banquet. Thanks so much, Nancy. How wonderful to end the trip with this bunch of gals who were profound and piquant and lots of fun.

The trip ended in Washington, DC where I met my collaborator, Daile Kaplan and we spent a day hanging the exhibit that we co-curated called, Daring Dames: A Century of Photographs of Adventurous Women. The show opens on Saturday, November 3 and will be up until June. If you will be in Washington during the next months, do make sure to see it at the National Headquarters of the Society of Woman Geographers at 415 East Capitol Street SE, Washington, DC 20003.
For information and reservations, call 202-546-9228.

So now I am back just in time to lead the world famous Greenwich Village Halloween Parade tomorrow night. I was invited to lead the parade with blessings, which I am delighted and honored to do.

But that is another story…

The Queen’s Chronicles: WELSH SPIRIT SITES PART 4

2007-10-11T20:03:00.001-07:00

The rocks were the central theme of this trip and although I loved them desperately, there were also other inspiring spiritual sites that moved me deeply.

We went to a Maize Maze on the Gower. Though this was not a spiritual site, it was a spiritual experience. We walked up and down paths cut through acres of corn stalks trying to find our way to the center and then back out again. Easier said than done. Blind byways and alleys always led to dead ends. Turn around and try again. Turn around and try again. And again. And again. Until we were completely turned around and disoriented.

I am usually a very patient person, but after a half hour of this, I got very antsy and had a momentary doubt that we’d ever get out. I had never felt claustrophobic before and so I really surprised myself when I panicked. But that is what a spiritual experience does: it allows you to see yourself in new ways.

That night, at the end of a very long day, we walked into a minor miracle. We had driven through several towns and villages looking for a good place to sleep, but we did not find anything very tempting, so we just kept going on hoping to find the perfect B&B. The last town we came to was Burry Port, which was skuzzy and unappealing, but it was getting dark and we were bushed, so we went to the pub that advertised B&B accommodations.

In the bar, I noticed a life size painting of Amelia Earhart and commented on it. Well! It turns out that on her famous transatlantic flight she was supposed to land in Ireland, but she was off course and landed her seaplane in the harbor of this town. She then stayed over in this same pub! The breakfast room was a museum/shrine celebrating her feat and stay in Burry Port. This seemed like such a lucky coincidence. Amelia and I, after all, were/are both members of the esteemed Society of Woman Geographers.

Another place that moved me deeply was Dylan Thomas’ home at Laugharne. His writing studio was in a tiny boathouse the size of a one-car garage, which perched on the edge of a hill overlooking marshland with gorgeous tall fronds of water grass and graceful wading birds. Even though I had never seen pictures of it, I had actually dreamt of this very place the night before. Except in my dream it was my writing studio.

Yet another place that was not a spiritual site inspired my spirit. Castell Henlleys is an archeological dig and reconstruction of an Iron Age settlement from the 6th Century BC. It was so well done and evocative that it was easy to imagine life 8000 years ago and realize how sophisticated it was in its creativity and skilled mastery of material, tool, and technique. Another spot where I felt oddly at home.

Several people suggested that I visit the church at Nevern and I am so glad that I did. Nevern is basically a sign on the road. A pub/inn. A social hall. A house or two. A good salmon fishing river. And the church. The church is early Norman and has a 1000-year old Celtic Cross in the churchyard. The gravestones are grey, worn and covered in lichen. There was a particularly touching tombstone for the 64-year old school marm.

Inside the church, each kneeling bench was covered with a colorful hand-stitched tapestry pillow with a different design drawn from Celtic iconography, made by the church ladies. There were at least 100 of them and they made for a really cheerful, cheer-filled sanctuary.

A river, the Nevern, runs through the churchyard. Along one side of the yard is a stone wall where you can sit and watch the river go by. The churchyard is planted with an amazing variety of some 100 different kinds of flowers and surrounded with ancient holy yew trees. Among these is the famous Nevern Weeping Yew that oozes a bloody red-colored sap. I collected some in a film canister to use in some appropriate future ritual. All in all, this was a very special spiritual site.

We didn’t really see much wild life. Some interesting birds, and that’s all. But there were sheep everywhere. And cows. And some horses, all domesticated. But one day on the moors we came across a pack of wild horses that belonged to nobody. They roamed free. They danced and pranced and scuffled and played on the open moor. They must have been used to people feeding them, because they were quite approachable, though skitterish. The most amazing thing about them was their mane, which was extremely long and wavy. They looked like so many equine Veronica Lakes.

I had been told about a special site called Ty Canol. One woman wrote me that in her opinion it was the most sacred spot on Earth. Well, I had to see this for myself. But that was not easy. I had to find it first. Everyone from the B&B keeper to the post office keeper to the tourist bureau clerk to the park ranger had heard of it. Most had been to it. But everyone told us that they got lost every time they tried to find it. It began to take on a Shangri-La/Brigadoon quality that only made me more dogged in my pursuit. For three days we tracked down leads and faulty directions, to no avail. But I was determined. There is always a test of faith before one is allowed to partake of the sacred.

On our last day in the area we drove up and down and around the maze of roads and dirt tracks that somehow kept us going in circles around where we knew it had to be. Finally a farmer carrying the cutest terrier in his arms came up to the car to ask if we were lost. He told us we were five minutes away and gave us very explicit directions. As soon as I saw the dog, which was the reincarnate spirit of my beloved bud terrier, I knew that this would be it, and that we would get to Ty Canol.

Which we did. In five minutes, just as he said. We parked the car and entered a cattle gate and followed the path up a rise and onto the moor. We walked for quite a distance and passed three large natural rock formations before we got a glimpse of the magic wood. Ty Canol, which means “little house” is the oldest oak forest in Europe.

I always think of oak trees as being mammoth, but these were small and knarled . They looked like giant bonsais. The oak leaves were tiny, only about an inch and a half long. Entering the woods was like crossing into another world, universe, dimension. The floor of the forest was rock strewn and sculptural with crevices, outcroppings, and exposed root systems, all of which was completely covered with a thick carpet of moss. The filtered light reflected the acid green of the moss and permeated the air all around. It was like being in a terrarium. The moss absorbed all sound. The silence was profound.

The ground called to me and I laid down upon it, luxuriantly comfortable on the deep moss mattress. I scattered some of my dear friend Jimmy’s ashes around and thought that this would be the nicest place possible to spend eternity. If ever there was a sacred grove, this was it. And there I was, in this impossibly, breathtakingly gorgeous place, basking in its beauty and power. Soaking up as much of the serene majestic energy of this holy wood as I possibly could.

I did bring back the feeling of that place and a certain longing for it. And also a certain nostalgia for all of the spirit sites and stones, which is why it has been so important to me to document this journey before it fades. Which I have now finally accomplished! I am satisfied and relieved. I have saved my memories from extinction.

And so now, having done so, I can turn my attention once again to the here and now.

The Queen’s Chronicles: WELSH SPIRIT SITES PART 3

2007-10-09T12:35:00.001-07:00

Heading further west, we spent four days in the town of Newport on the Pembrokeshire coast. Right on a backstreet of the town in a small lot cordoned off behind a fence there was another, bigger, capstone cairn, or dolmen called Carreg Coetan. This one — which was actually balanced on only two of the four standing stones supporting it — stood way taller than me, perhaps nine feet tall. For some reason, I really liked this one the best. I liked the energy. The privacy. The casual demeanor of the place despite its being so close to civilization. There was just something very sweet about it.

The big, famous cromlech, Pentre Ifan, was about 3 miles outside of town. The scale is astounding. And the audacity, skill, and strength of the folks who made it are mind-boggling. The word “big” does not begin to cut it. This thing was, as they say, ginormous. A huge, towering monument. The capstone alone is16-feet long, 8-feet high, and weighs 16 tons. And it is lightly perched on the fist-sized edges of three stones, each about twelve or so feet tall. It takes your breath away.

But, as I said, this site was famous, and a steady stream of people from all over came and went constantly. It was so hard to have to share this experience. I would have wanted some time to be there alone and quiet. What was worse, were the tourist families with kids who made a racket and attempted to climb the steep standing stones. Aaaarggh! “Come on,” I wanted to say. “This is a burial ground. You wouldn’t let your kids run wild and jump all over the tombstones in a cemetery.” But I swallowed my tongue.

Also nearby — well, nearby is a very relative word in Wales. It was nearby on the map. But on the twisting maze of Welsh backcountry lanes, it took forever. Lost again, looking for an ancient stone circle that I knew was hidden in a field right around there somewhere, we tried to find someone to ask but there was no one about. I finally saw a sign for a pottery studio and assuming someone would be there, we turned off the road to inquire. I found someone and don’t you know that the very site we were searching for was right there in the field behind the house!

Gors Fawr, a circle about 70 feet in diameter, is composed of16 low stones. It was way off in the field and hard to see because the stones are so small, only a couple of feet high, and the grass was so high. Not to mention the sheep wandering all about. It was a perfect stone circle day — grey, misty, foggy, drizzly, moody weather. The precipitation made everything seem so intimate plus it insured that there would be no other visitors. That, alone, was a majorly great thing.

On one of the rocks I found an offering made from a y-shaped stick wrapped in sheep wool. It looked very like the yoni amulets that I make.
How strange and how familiar. There was also a scorched circle fire pit in the center. Clearly this ancient ceremonial site is still used for ceremonies. Though much less dramatic than the giant cromlechs, the
energy in this large circle of small stones was palpably sacred.

Just down the road the landscape turned into wild moors. These wide open spaces were wild and windy. In the distance were the Priseli Peaks where the bluestone for Stonehenge was quarried. Imagine that feat. Cutting huge slabs of rock. Hauling them down from the mountains. Carrying them overland and across water for 200 miles — all by hand and back. Then setting them up. How the hell did they manage?

I’ll tell you, all those stones are so energetic that I bet they just walked themselves over to Wilshire County and arranged themselves in a ceremonial sister circle. And whenever no one is looking, they dance!

To be continued…

The Queen’s Chronicles: WELSH SPIRIT SITES Part 2

2007-10-07T19:34:00.001-07:00

Continuing on through southern Wales to the Gower Peninsula... This area had been widely recommended to me, Many thanks to those who sent me there. This area is wilder and less populated than what we had seen so far. But as beautiful as the land was, it was impossible to sightsee from the car. The roads are barely one lane wide and extremely twisty plus we had to drive on the left side, so it was hard to divert attention from the road ahead.

And anyway it would have been impossible to see anything because the roads are all bordered by high hedges that block any view. Now that I write this, I wonder if that was an intentional safety consideration, since it really is crucial to keep your eyes glued straight ahead — or as straight as possible on those pretzel roads.

We found a 5000-year old burial mound, which was about a 20-minute walk from the road. Unfortunately, there was a park ranger taking a cigarette break and his truck was marked right next to the mound, which ruined it both visually and energetically for me. We saw what we could see, but it wasn’t spectacular.

Roselli is a tiny village at the very end of the Gower peninsula. There on a high spot overlooking the sea was St. Mary’s cemetery with an old weathered grey stone cemetery. Of all the places I visited, this one was the most evocative of some long lost memory.
I was so happy wandering around in there. So contented and centered. Was my old past life body buried under the ground there?

At Roselli there is a spectacular walk that snakes along the cliffs on the edge of the peninsula. Every step forward offers a different and more dramatic view of the rocks and the sky and the sea. Sure-footed sheep were grazing the grass up and down and around the steep precipices. The wind was wild and it was quite chilly. It was all quite primal. Elemental.

Another site on Gower was what the locals call King Arthur’s Stone. Again, despite it’s being on the map, there was no way to find it. Finally we stopped in a little post office/liquor store and asked. No one seemed to know where it was, but, of course, someone eventually did. And we there — a pull off of the tiny road, which was busy with loose horses and sheep crossing back and forth and hanging out in the middle.

There were several cars and a few caravans parked right in the middle of a cow pasture. Folks were sitting outside on camp chairs reading the evening paper surrounded by large grazing animals strolling about. One of these guys showed me how to find the stones. They were straight ahead across fields filled with stones and cows and cow paddies and mud puddles.

After a walk of about 15 minutes, the pasture ended suddenly at an overlook. We have reached the end of the world — the edge where rock meets sea. There, just to the left, is a huge egg-shaped rock pile, another ancient burial mound. How beautifully situated as a final resting place. And there, just 100 yards or so away, was the first and smallest of three mushroom-like cromlechs we were to see.

This was a burial chamber, as well, but constructed very differently. Balanced about four feet above the ground — seemingly impossibly — on the tips of three vertical standing stones was an oblong oval capstone as large as a queen size bed. Really, just balanced on three small points. And has stayed balanced for 5500 years. Remarkable. Like all cairn of this type, the whole thing was once covered in earth, the rocks being an armature.

What a wonderful site. Two completely different stone monuments, each incredible in its own way. Wonderful ocean views. Just one group of German tourists who left soon after we arrived. Only a couple of curious cows to interrupt my reverie.

To be continued…

The Queen’s Chronicles: WELSH SPIRIT SITES

2007-10-05T20:55:00.000-07:00

Even though my trip to Wales was two months ago, I feel compelled to complete the report of what I saw and felt. This is partly to share my amazing experiences and partly to savor and luxuriate in them once more before I am completely swept away by my current involvements and these precious memories begin to fade.

I went to Wales to try to glimpse a past life that a seer had told me that I had had there and also to see the spirit sites. Although I felt exceedingly comfortable and at home in Wales, I did not experience any intense déjà vu moments. I did not recognize any particular person, place or thing, but everything seemed very familiar to me and many people thought that I was Welsh.

This trip was largely about rocks. I had already made several trips to visit the famous standing stone sites in England, Scotland, and Brittany was looking for more amazing megalithic monuments. And I found them! — with a little help from my far flung email friends who sent me many suggestions to pursue.

First stop, Tintern Abbey. These stone ruins are quite impressive. The grounds are extensive and there are many sections of pathways, walls, arches, chimneys, and courtyards scattered about.

The main cathedral is roofless and floorless, but, by far, the best-preserved abbey ruins that I saw anywhere. Light filtered in through sweeping windowless arches. Birds flew about overhead. The grass inside was a vivid green, thick and soft. The energy was serene and embracing. This is a place to exhale. To release pent up stress and let go of all residual tension. A place of peace.

Even thought the megalithic stone sites are marked on the maps, they are not marked on the roads, so the search for them was truly a magical mystery tour, following the directions of locals and my own instinct. Allowing the stones to pull me in to their world.

The map showed a stone site in the Wye Valley. When we got to the village indicated, I asked directions from an old man who was raking the graves in the churchyard. He was stone deaf, but with some shouting and lots of gesturing, he understood my request and gave me great directions.

And just where he said they would be in the middle of a field hidden behind hedges, were the Three Stones of Trellich. Those three crone stones were just standing patiently where they have stood for millennia, each one leaning toward the others. I was particularly drawn to the middle one and stood with my entire body against her length, my face resting against her surface, which was rough with lichens. She towered over me and emitted a great heat that1 was healing in the extreme.

That was a great site, hidden from the world. No tourists. No people at all. Just the sky and earth and stones. Just steady ancient energy, and a feeling of being weighted, rooted, connected to what really matters.

To be continued…

The Queen’s Chronicles: FULL HARVEST MOON

2007-09-26T07:47:00.000-07:00

Today is the Full Harvest Moon. Let us take a moment to align ourselves with that lunar energy and contemplate the harvest of our lives. What have we learned? How have we grown? What seeds have we sown and nurtured? What are the rewards of our labors? What bounty have we collected? What resources have we preserved? What stores have we prepared for the future? What abundance have we freely shared? What gratitude, appreciation, and reverence have we displayed? What wonder and joy of living?

The Queen’s Chronicles: GLASTONBURY SPIRIT - PART 2

2007-09-24T12:47:00.000-07:00

After descending from the Tor, we headed directly to the Chalice Well and gardens. What an oasis of tranquility and peace after the steep, sweaty climb up and down the Tor.

Since ancient times, the waters that bubble up from the depths of the Earth have been regarded as sacred. These waters are the essence of the source of life and are still revered as such.

The spring that feeds Chalice Well has never been known to fail, so it has been, and still is, venerated as a symbol of the continuous and ever-flowing nature of the life force.

This holy healing water emerges from the Earth at its source and pours out of the mouth of a sculpted lion’s head. It runs red, rich in iron, and collects in the well and streams through a series of pools, channels, fountains, and waterfalls that snake through the gloriously gorgeous gardens.

The water leaves a rusty tinge on everything that it touches, so the stones are tinted with a terra cotta color. Because of this, it has been known as the Blood Spring. And so it is. The blood waters of the Goddess’s sacred flow, the source, the pulsing force of life.

The temperature of this carmine spring water is a constant 52 degrees Fahrenheit, which was, on such a horribly hot day, delightfully refreshing, despite its metallic taste.

There is a rectangular pool where you can sit with your feet in the water so you can soak up its spirit, but 52 degrees is quite cold to the touch, especially when the air is steamy. Yet folks sat there with their feet immersed, meditating for the longest time.

I sat in the shade of the ancient yew trees listening to the constant gurgle and was tranceported to a state of serene bliss. I could have sat there in silence and peace forever. The rustling trees, the bird songs, the water sparkling with sunlight all lulled me and erased any niggly thoughts of stress or worry. Now this was truly a powerful place.

As it was Lammas Day, the First Harvest Festival, the Summer Midpoint, there was an extraordinary altar set up on the cover of the well: beautiful breads and blossoms, orange and gold arranged in perfect ceremonial order. What a gift to discover this sacred offering. What a miracle to happen to be there on the right day.

The old Celtic ways are still so deeply imbedded in England. They are still alive in the memories and daily lives of many people. That morning the cleaning woman at the B&B where I was staying gave me special wishes for August 1. Lammas in Glastonbury was not a New Age or pagan or Wiccan celebration. It was the authentic local tradition.

To be continued…

The Queen’s Chronicles: GLASTONBURY SPIRIT PART 1

2007-09-21T22:15:00.000-07:00

I played hooky from the Goddess Conference twice. On August 1, Lammas, the Summer Cross-Quarter Day, I went to the sacred sites in Glastonbury. I needed to be outside and in nature. So with my partner-in-crime, I hiked over Chalice Hill and on to the Tor, which we climbed on a rare, much too hot day. The view from the top was vast and serene, gorgeously green due to the English summer of incessant rain.

The Tor, which means conical hill, was beautiful, and extremely powerful visually -- especially from a distance. An imposing mound, elevation: 158 M/518 FT squatting alone on a vast flood plain, topped by the remaining tower of a medieval church dedicated to St. Michael. The sight from afar was incredibly stirring. And beckoning.

We walked across fields alive with grass and sheep, climbed over stiles, trudged through muddy muck, lost our way, and backtracked to find the proper path that would take us closer and closer still to the Tor. And then,
after having seen the Tor in the distance -- as an apparition, as an inspiring vision, as a goal -- all of a sudden there it was right in front of us looking formidable and steep.

We climbed. It was steep. And it was horribly hot. And crowded. There were families with dogs, tourists with kids, and pagan pilgrims with crystals and pendulums puffing up the Tor, sweating and panting and joking about how out of shape they were. We soon reached the top and the shade
that the tower offered. I sank onto the stone ledge inside the ruin where it was divinely cool, and stank to high heaven of piss. Charming.

One upon a time, pilgrims ascended the Tor in a statelier manner. Rather than struggling up the vertical slope, they circled it in a labyrinthine spiral, winding up and around in a meditative state. You can still see the subtle, terraced trails. Today, however, the Tor’s grassy sides are eroding and it is important not to walk on it, but to stay on the designated trail. Too bad.

Everyone settled down when they reached the peak. The energy on the hilltop was easy. People sat quietly in pairs and small groups, enjoying the spectacular view and the peaceful ambiance. For me, the Tor did not possess the mighty, in-your-face, obvious power that it is reputed to. Perhaps that, too, had been eroded over the millennia. While I was there, the land under my feet felt bereft of spirit. I now realize that there was, indeed a strong power there, but it was a more subtle, silent, calm, and comforting energy at work that emanated from the earth, and was trancemitted through the people.

On the climb back down, I was moved to touch a particular boulder. It was buzzing with energy. My whole body vibrated in tune with it. I kept my left hand on the rock and I laid my right hand in Daile’s, which set her to vibrating, too. The spirit of the Tor was definitely, undeniably, present. But it was not underfoot. It was safely stored in the rocks, which still ripple with it.

To be continued…

THE QUEEN’S CHRONICLES: Home again, Home Again Jiggedy Jog

2007-09-21T11:26:00.001-07:00

Dear everyone,

Great Goddess greetings from Exotic Brooklyn!

After years of urging by my readers as well as by participants in my ceremonial circles, the long-procrastinated day has finally arrived for me to step up to the blog.

This is a great time to start documenting the magical mystery tour that is my life. The Queen’s Chronicles will share the adventures and enterprises of The Queen of My Self as I travel along the path of my passion, my purpose, and my power — what I call “being on the miracle trail.”

I have just arrived back home from two splendid, magic-filled weeks in Goddess Land. Words can barely express my wonder and delight. The entire experience in England and Wales more than exceeded my very high hopes. I am renewed, inspired, centered, and empowered by the strength of my own spirituality.

Many of you have asked me to share my experiences and I shall. Here below, is a short report about the International Goddess Conference in Glastonbury, England where I was a keynote speaker and workshop presenter. Here is the first installment, to be followed by a spiritual travelogue of the holy sites that I visited in Glastonbury as well as in Wales. That is, IF I can find adequate words to trancemit the intimacy, the intensity, the sheer exuberance of this very special time!

For now,

Best blessings,

xxQueen Mama Donna

THE GODDESS CONFERENCE
GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND

My hostess in Glastonbury was a delight. We bonded immediately and the week I spent under her glorious B&B roof and in her delightful gardens was a perfect blend of comfort, hospitality, restoration, aesthetic glory, and jolly conviviality. Thanks for everything, Fay Hutchcroft.

The Goddess conference was attended by about 250 gorgeous women and several equally lovely men. Devout Goddess worshippers, all. The attendees were from everywhere in the UK, as well as Ireland, Australia, Argentina, Austria, France, Italy, India, Canada, and the United States - New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, Colorado, California. And these are just those who I was able to have a conversation with. Who knows how many other places were represented?

Each day began with three or four keynote presentations to the entire gathered body. The afternoons were dedicated to a choice of 3-4 hour workshops, all dealing in some way with the Crone archetype of wisdom, darkness, decline, and death. And the evenings were given over to fabulous sacred pageantry, rich in visual and spiritual vision. The costumes, the decor, the profound words and moving music provided a tranceformative environment and hence, experience. Brava Kathy Jones, Impresario Supreme, and also to the sizzling spirited sisterhood of priestesses of the Goddess Temple of Glastonbury.

The presenters were all fascinating and quite skilled. The attendees were so open — eyes, ears, hearts, chakras, arms, voices — and so present in their participation. intent on absorbing the excellent energy. Everyone was immersed in the spirit, decked out in an amazing array of creative festive finery.

And the helpers, called “Melissas,” were so very, very helpful. Several of these Busy Bee Goddesses took me under their wings and helped me to do whatever I needed to do. Thank you so much. You know who you are! And a special shout out to the inimitable Jennifer Cooper and Nicky who handled the selling of my books — one less thing for me to think about — and a grand excuse to hang out with them.

I was honored to offer a presentation on my new archetype of the Full Spirited Four Fold Goddess and Her correspondences to the four elements, four seasons and directions, four quarters of the moon, and four stages of a woman's life: the Maiden, the Mother, The Queen, and the Crone. The response was stunning. There was an overwhelming enthusiasm from everyone there expressed through laughter, cheers, and heartfelt hugs of gratitude. “Of course! A Queen and not a Crone! Aha! Makes sense! It is about time!”

I also facilitated two workshops, one for a full day and the other for an afternoon. In all, 42 women went through the heady process of naming, claiming and proclaiming their sovereignty and were crowned as Queens of themselves.

Then on the penultimate day of the conference there was a huge ceremony to crown all the Crones and all the Queens. About ten women and two men chose to cover themselves with the mantle of the Crone or in the case of the men, the Sage. What Nearly 70 women declared themselves Queens including two septuagenarians and a 90-year old! What an affirmation of the Queen and the Four Fold Goddess. I was stunned to the bone and thrilled beyond measure!

What a confirmation of my invented new archetype! The creation of The Queen of My Self involved not only years of research, but also some serious soul searching and dogged instinct following. All of which led me to an authentic truth, widely shared, relevant, resonant, and thankfully warmly embraced.

If one is lucky, a solitary fantasy can totally
transform one million realities.
—Maya Angelou

Long live the Queens!

To be continued...