Do not think of us like dolls in a store. We are not silly. We have jobs. Think, if you wish, of us as dolls you once played with, spoke to in a secret language. We know secret languages. Feel free to teach us yours. We are used to dealing with the individual whose heart and soul have been opened to new possibilities as they begin a final journey.
I am Maranola and I speak now for the seven of us. Others among us will speak when they are ready.
We arrived in the winter after leaving a cold stone interior. Journeys are our profession, but now we are in a new land where our thoughts are in a different language than the words spoken. We are finding home in this place above the soil, here with you. Our background in meditation and openness of spirit helps us.
We seven lie now in the home of Theresa. She thinks of her father and his journey to the next world without the likes of our kind, but we are here to help her move on. Now we are transition guides of life not death. We are vulnerable with her in life. Still we are witnesses and company. We share Theresa’s heritage; we eight are imbued with Peru to our very core.
Now tourists in Washington, DC, we will stay on until this is truly home, never knowing if we will return, if she will chose to take us when she goes on her finally journey. This is too much to think of just yet. Stories keep one truth at bay so another may enter. It is time for the other.
We can all help each other. They have asked me to begin. I, Maranola stand before you on the left. Let me tell you how we came here. We thought it was an end, there was fire which we fear, but then there was a village Eden and we knew we had left the underworld. Crops, wild and domestic animals, white and tan stone houses, the sun coming over mountains lay before our eyes, an image of paradise. Biero called out to the llamas, spoke of the fields of ripe corn.
It was a village of women. That we could not end our journey was mysteriously apparent. We walked on to a deep river where boats floated and we climbed aboard. Biero brought a bag of seed, so we could plant crops of our own wherever we landed. This passage was experienced as a labyrinth, a circular maze. As we crossed over a light from above encircled my head and I was chosen to speak by the others. Then we were enfolded in paper and then a sack.
Theresa is our patron; we want to be her muse. All this has just begun.
Theresa will speak for herself and through us. We all hope to inspire don’t we. We respond, we accept, we nourish the spirit. The world needs these things, artist especially.
See the pictures in our mind. We communicate telepathically to others who can speak this English. We rest in a sleeve of language, where phrases form, parse and come back together through a skim of unfamiliarity. This is so much like the passage that lies on the other side of death, the passage we were trained one we are so adept at.
It is still winter here though much less snow than where we were. Living so low to sea level the air seems thick and unforgiving but we are excited by our new role.
I am Maranola and I speak now for the seven of us. Others among us will speak when they are ready.
We arrived in the winter after leaving a cold stone interior. Journeys are our profession, but now we are in a new land where our thoughts are in a different language than the words spoken. We are finding home in this place above the soil, here with you. Our background in meditation and openness of spirit helps us.
We seven lie now in the home of Theresa. She thinks of her father and his journey to the next world without the likes of our kind, but we are here to help her move on. Now we are transition guides of life not death. We are vulnerable with her in life. Still we are witnesses and company. We share Theresa’s heritage; we eight are imbued with Peru to our very core.
Now tourists in Washington, DC, we will stay on until this is truly home, never knowing if we will return, if she will chose to take us when she goes on her finally journey. This is too much to think of just yet. Stories keep one truth at bay so another may enter. It is time for the other.
We can all help each other. They have asked me to begin. I, Maranola stand before you on the left. Let me tell you how we came here. We thought it was an end, there was fire which we fear, but then there was a village Eden and we knew we had left the underworld. Crops, wild and domestic animals, white and tan stone houses, the sun coming over mountains lay before our eyes, an image of paradise. Biero called out to the llamas, spoke of the fields of ripe corn.
It was a village of women. That we could not end our journey was mysteriously apparent. We walked on to a deep river where boats floated and we climbed aboard. Biero brought a bag of seed, so we could plant crops of our own wherever we landed. This passage was experienced as a labyrinth, a circular maze. As we crossed over a light from above encircled my head and I was chosen to speak by the others. Then we were enfolded in paper and then a sack.
Theresa is our patron; we want to be her muse. All this has just begun.
Theresa will speak for herself and through us. We all hope to inspire don’t we. We respond, we accept, we nourish the spirit. The world needs these things, artist especially.
See the pictures in our mind. We communicate telepathically to others who can speak this English. We rest in a sleeve of language, where phrases form, parse and come back together through a skim of unfamiliarity. This is so much like the passage that lies on the other side of death, the passage we were trained one we are so adept at.
It is still winter here though much less snow than where we were. Living so low to sea level the air seems thick and unforgiving but we are excited by our new role.
by Rosie Dempsey
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