It is always my intent to do this once a month. However, Life often has others things in mind. And that's all right because it means more to think about.

Since October (the season of Oya), I have shape shifted from one dimension of energy into another.

The energy of Oya in my life has settled into a quiet turning; the tornado not silent, but revolving at a steady pace within me. On the outside, a total surrender to the energy and beauty of Osun, mother of the mirror, sweet rivers, culture, wealth, manifestation.

The shift in energy was not subtle. No, for the past two years Osun has gentle prepared me by saying she was was ready for me now. And finally asking if I was ready.

Is this the road: transformation leads to love and the ability to hold the mirror to the self.

I have never been one to fight change too hard; sometimes I don't at all. I have somehow always known that it leads to a beauty and joy so profound that if everyone knew this in the beginning they would willingly surrender. But, gently surrendering does not produce the surety of pearls or diamonds. And gently surrendering does not mean there is not resistance.

At the moment, I am fascinated and extremely grateful for the powerfully quick manifestation of thoughts. It is also frightening. I am watching things told to me over nearly 15 years ago become reality. It makes me think of how far light travels, how long starlight has been dead. It makes me more mindful of watching my own mind and setting into motion the future.

If we really think about it, this ability is time travel. It is the ability to change our consciousness and surroundings.

How best can we use this gift? Imagine...all the people...

-Abegunde

This is the season of Oya: change, change, change.  And what a season it is.

Every angle of my life, it seems, is undergoing a transformation - even if it is simply preparing for change to arrive. Resistance, as the Borg were fond of saying, is futile. I'm not laughing as much about some of it as I would like to, but I have been dancing which helps me process it out of my body.

The Orisa Oya is the Orisa - the deity, the natural force, the guardian - of transformation at microscopic and monumental levels. She is represented by the tornado, the hurricane. She is the one who guides you towards Death and, therefore, is often seen by some as the guardian of the graveyard. Sometimes you see her coming; sometimes you don't. But to not see her coming means often that you have not been heeding the signs.

As with all Orisa and natural forces, she is to be respected for all her awesomeness. She is to be integrated into your life so that you are not overwhelmed by her.

My first encounter with Oya was before I had a name for her but she had already called mine.

I was 13 years old and visiting my grandmother in Grenada. Every year, we spent the summer walking the three miles to the beach, running through the massive yard, sitting against the house eating five different types of mangoes until we had to suck our fingers and elbows clean.

It was hurricane season. For days rain pelted the island. Coconuts whisked by our windows. The house rattled. Everyone was warned not to go outside. So...

I stepped outside onto the veranda when my grandmother fell asleep. It was after noon because we had already said the rosary as was our custom when the church bells rang 12 p.m.  I opened the plantation shutter doors slowly, stepped outside, and felt the wind against my body. I watched as the small shack that belonged to Sandra and Coley lost its roof and they scrambled next door for cover. I watched Ms. Aberdine's house, no larger and not much more solid, remain standing. Less than six feet between them.

Something dark lingered over the Atlantic Ocean at the entrance to Bathway Beach. I stepped further out.

At the top of the trees was a tornado that had been created out of the hurricane. She spun and spun and then stopped. For what seemed several minutes, a white light filled the funnel. That light reached out to me and I heard a soft but steady voice assuring me that nothing in my life would ever be the same again but my gift would be to encounter the tornadoes in my life and live.

I then watched the tornado spin past the island down to St. Vincents.

I re-entered the house and never spoke of this event until several years ago.

My mother died one year later.

30 years later I am even more respectful of this force in my life. She returns to protect me and to move me gently (praises!) when I refuse to - you got it - change, change, change.

Praise to Olodumare. Praise to the Aje. Prasie to the Egun. Praise to the Orisa. Praise to the Orisa Oya, Mother of the Wind that coils itself into your soul so your own soul can be revealed to you; Mother Who Cracks the Mirror with Osun so your image of yourself will not be distorted; Mother of the Breath that guides our spirits back to the place from which they are born.

Ase!

Upon appearance, chows look much heavier than they are.  When properly groomed, Midnight looked like a little black lion.  Without his hair (usually in the summer), he looked like your average small dog (except for the lion's mane) and harmless.

Don't be fooled.  Several situations in our daily lives made this clear.

Lesson #1:  Persons in uniforms or unidentified as part of the household should never stand at the front door.  A visiting friend opened the door to accept a package from the mailman.  Midnight, in what seemed to be 5 seconds, ran from the back of the house to the front door and chased the mailman out.

Lesson #2: Unidentified persons attempting to enter the house at night should not.  Unlike my other dog, who slept in the upstairs bedroom on the floor, Midnight slept at the front door as if he were the mat.  His strategy for anyone attempting to enter the house after we had falling asleep:  allow you to open the door and reach for the light, one foot in the house, before attacking you.

Lesson #3: Just because you hold the leash doesn't mean you control it.  Imagine my surprise when between breaths, Midnight had already spotted the cat, ran after it (with me flying behind him), and turned it over on its back.  I had the distinct feeling that had I not been there, he would have killed the cat and buried it.  Later, I walked around the corner to apologize to the neighbor. 

Lesson #4:  Chows, although they are small dogs under the hair, are incredibly strong dogs.

Lesson #5: Chows do not bark unless necessary.  All the things listed above were completed in silence.

Lesson #6:  You do know you have a dog that will die for you?  In 1998, I accepted a position as lead team teacher on a sailing vessel with Captain Bill Pinkney.  It would be a 2-month voyage retracing the slave routes from Puerto Rico to Brasil.  I needed a place to board Midnight.  After several weeks of searching, I came to these conclusions:  most people considered Chows highly intelligent, but unpredictable; they were considered (even the best integrated with people and other dogs) highly dangerous to everyone except the owner.  No kennel would take him.

When a breeder asked me this question, You do know you have a dog that will die for you, I understood fully my situation.  This abused creature had trusted me enough to come when I called him off the expressway.   He did not play with me like my other dog.  He did not bark.  He did not nuzzle up to me.  He did not beg.  Most times, he paid me little attention.  But, if someone or something he did not know came within 2 feet of me, he sat on my foot to claim his dominion, his love, and his willingness to protect me at all costs.

What had I done to deserve this complete devotion?  What was his true purpose in my life?

Midnight helped me develop tools for my own spiritual path. For the first time, I was responsible for someone:  walk, feed, clean.  Each time we walked, I became more mindful of not only how I walked, but of what items in my life I could/could not control.  I became more comfortable with the idea that someone was physically protecting me.  And I learned the connections possible through silence. 

Midnight met me at the door or sat at my feet when I read in the living room. He never touched the furniture. He let me do Reiki on him and would come to request it when he needed it.  Sometimes, we would look directly into each other's eyes.

Midnight taught me how to "attack" a situation that could possibly harm me.  Without me realizing it, he was teaching me how not to allow a possible danger to linger, how not to tarry too long on making decisions about things that could harm me.  

He was teaching me how to act from instinct.  While this seems not a good thing for many people, for me it was necessary.  I operated from mind alot of times, over thinking and processing.  I wasn't fully experiencing my own emotions or desires. In the end, he would show me how duty and instinct could complement each other.

In our initial meeting, he taught me how to fully answer the call of the voice that I had been waiting for.  I know that he dreamed of being rescued and never gave up even when he could not find a way off the expressway.  I know this because I saw him that day.

He taught me how to not fear dogs, something that I had done all of my life.  In overcoming that fear, I overcame many others. 

And in first being willing to die for me - not kill for me - he taught me compassion and the responsibiity of duty towards another.

Love is like that isn't it?

Next:  Giving Midnight Up

Check out:   http://ariran.zaadz.com/

Trying something different.