October 2007

Self Portrait Challenge: What I Wear

by Leonie Dawson on October 29, 2007

I clothe myself in Mama Earth:
dried eucalypt leaves tangling in my hair,
coral in my eyes, stems of nuts and flowering buds dangling from wrists,
seaweed and mulla mulla grass wrapping their tender arms around my body.

I walk barefoot:
letting the air and the light
kiss me and cleanse me
reminding me of my beginnings and endings.

I lose myself in Her, and Her in me.
Every part of me is dust and love,
singing in a body.
I am in the trees. The trees are in me.

What I wear is My Self and My Earth:
medicine bag on my back,
radiant body, limbs, life, breath,
joy in every step.


~ * ~

I had wild photo picnics on the farm on the weekend!
Check out the pictures here!

Freya Love

by Leonie Dawson on October 27, 2007



I’m in the process of catching up on processing all the photos I’ve taken in the last few weeks…

Here’s some of the photographs I took at the first birthing day celebration of my little goddess-sister-niece Freya… You can see more over at my photography blog. Yes… photography blog! I’m experimenting at the moment with having a blog with more of my photography pictures… You can see the rest of the blog at http://leonieallan.blogspot.com ~ add to your bloglines if you like!

Freya’s birthday was a precious little celebration of food and friendship and puppets and drumming. I think her favourite birthday present was from her soulmate/surrogate uncle Josh who gave her something that would keep her amused for hours: a box of tissues.


Kaylia dreams in leaves…


Connor and calcite crystals…


Uncy Josh


Connor is sometimes a firefighting dragon..

And then of course, the all important Ukelele-Off

As our little community evolves…
most of us immigrants to this city with kin living away…
I find that our friends are the family we create for ourselves.

What would you do if you knew that All Is Well?

Soak up the stars,
Leonie

Love From The Jungle

by Leonie Dawson on October 24, 2007

There are so many stories tumbling inside me. So many stories to be heard, known, understood. So many stories to make a home inside this soul of mine.

Stories of how the light looks at Brisbane dawn, seeping into you, waking you long before you are ready. Stories of sisterhood and fierce love and unexpected tenderness. Stories of sushi and curry and cupcakes. Stories of hospital beds and meds and a ferociously beautiful octogenarian named Phyllis sharing a hospital room with three mad sisters. Stories of walks in long green and black skirts, patterned with elephants, walks waist-high through the jungle of Brisbane’s wildflowers and wilderness, magnificence and mangroves. Stories of taxi drivers who break your heart or set it free with love for humanity. Stories of wildness. And laughter that leaves you breathless and falling into trees, the kind of laughter only sisters know. Stories of hands clutching crystals. Stories of past lives and presentness and priestesses and puppies. Stories of seeing beautiful women and luscious men in my eyes, heart, camera lens.


Stories of walking through the city at daybreak with a thirsty soul, following your feet past ruptured concrete to a tiny breath of Mama Earth, a park carved into the bustle of a hill. Stories of butterflies and birds. Stories of old friends and new friends. Stories of seeing an old friend and telling him: you know who I once dreamed of being? I am that now. Stories of a picnic in an abandoned lot/park/fairy garden, a gathering of rainbow precious women. Stories of pyjama parties and making dreams come true. And the brave pleasure of being yourself, even when that self seems faintly otherworldly. Stories of pain and healing, vulnerability and loveliness. Stories of nestling with my sisters, legs and hands akimbo, revelling in our holy trinity.

So many stories. I do not know yet how to tell them, how to speak them, how to hear them for what they really are. They instead are streams of silk fluttering around inside me, and I clutch at them, threading long fingers through them, grasping them into a ball. And then I let them go, I breathe and I sit. I watch, knowing instead that on their own, with time, the silken threads will weave and warp into a quilt of understanding and wisdom. Maybe I could show you the quilt when it has discovered itself. Maybe I could share it in adorned squares: of photographs, of the little stories, of moments.

But for now, there are breaths to be breathed, and a deeply precious life to be loved.

All is well,
with love,
Leonie