June is my favorite month, mostly because it is my birth month and when wild daisies are in abundance. Isn’t it nice of daisies to aide young girls as they alternate pulling petals and asking the flower if he loves her or loves her not. Those golden stamens clustered at the center are then crumpled then thrown into the air, allowing however many to land back on her palm and tell the number of children she will have—luckily daisies are better at teasing than predicting. While I sit on my shaded deck writing this blog, the day is perfect summer – 85 degrees (NICE!), somewhat humid, but there is a breeze that alternates between gusty and gentle and with bright sunshine and bouts of warm rain showers punctuated by a rainbow. This is summer how I like it!
And so sitting here now the memories come as gentle as raindrops, like fingertips tapping upon the head and shoulders so like an old friend seeking attention. A favorite image drifts into my mind of picking early summer peas from the garden with my psychic grandparent. Then we would sit on her front stoop to shell them into a metal (maybe it was tin) dish/pan she used for this sort of task. Of course, it doesn’t matter if the bowl is made from any other material, but I truly believe using a metal container makes all the difference—both for the unique sounds made as peas drop onto the metal and enhancing the taste of fresh-picked early peas. As I let the vividness of this remembering float upon my mind, so too do my sense of smell and hearing get in on the act, serving to further enliven the images.
First, using thumb and first finger, I gently squeeze the middle of the peapod, while listening . . . there it is, the quaint crisp sound as the seam unseals in agreement that you may take its small, sweet orbs. Next, I slide my thumb inside the pod, hearing the tiniest hint of a pop as each pea is broken free of its umbilical connection to the pod parent, which frees them to leap out and fall into my lap where the metal pan waits to collect them. Oh, the pan certainly might be shiny and new, but obviously I prefer one somewhat shiny, but definitely looking maltreated. When they escape from their spring-green pod, they fall . . . down . . . down . . . down . . . and then drop with a sound unique to semi-hard orbs striking the bottom of a metal pan.
Splat – pop – plunk – pop – pop, smack, plunk – ping, plunk – ting, plonk, ping. The sounds stop as the pan shifts when its supporting thighs move, sending the loose peas rolling, rattling and plunking from one side to the other. Then, the popping, plunking and pinging of shelled peas continues until there are so many that the peas no longer strike the metal, instead smacking into the other peas already in the pan. Soon their numbers have increased to the point the sound becomes ever more muffled as they land against the others; only as the former peas whispered greetings or grumbled if too rudely bumped by the new arrivals. When these numbers increased, the sounds became completely muffled—the metal pan now full. The formerly tinny sounds had become like those made by footfalls of fairies on a mossy, woodland path—where there are no metal pans to collect their green shoes.
Oh, I nearly forgot to mentions voices matrixed as part of the melody of shelling peas into metal pans—the deep, melodious one of an older crone (my grandmother) and the younger, lilting one (mine). This chatter – as it was mostly nonsense and whimsical retorts – consisted of much storytelling as a means of teaching and mingling truth with fantasy; other times it was questions asked and answers given. Anyone observing would never notice the subtle insights exchanged with adult to child and child with adult. Indeed, so many dreams and wishes expressed by the child; promises made, although seldom were they all within the abilities or realm of the grandmother crone to make or grant. What I realize now that I surely did not fathom then, this was more than a simple exchange of ideas and information; instead, metaphorically this was the joining of two hearts – no matter that it was the old with the young; the young to the old – as the crone imparted her skills and wisdom to a child with untested psychic abilities. It was probably then somewhere inside that memory that I began blossoming as the pea sprouts; that sharing of ideals, concepts and innate knowledge of the unknown, unseen and supernatural eventually matured as clairvoyance in the child, inspired then as always by the now-deceased gifted seer grandmother. June was her favorite month, as I remember it now so, just like the seed peas planted in rich soil to sprout and grow, finally blossoming and thus producing the mature vessels (peapods) containing so much potential and a legacy to continue forward.
Indeed, ironically this memory of learning from my grandmother over such a simple task, reminds of the enigmatic methodology of the Ancient Mystery Schools—the new peas representing an orb made from wisdom and experience; forever reborn as special intuitive abilities passed from my grandmother (crone) to me as a child—exactly the same as the peas falling, but into a newer and less battered metal pan, which shall forever be grateful to the creator who made even the simple peas and a great expansive Cosmos.
And so sitting here now the memories come as gentle as raindrops, like fingertips tapping upon the head and shoulders so like an old friend seeking attention. A favorite image drifts into my mind of picking early summer peas from the garden with my psychic grandparent. Then we would sit on her front stoop to shell them into a metal (maybe it was tin) dish/pan she used for this sort of task. Of course, it doesn’t matter if the bowl is made from any other material, but I truly believe using a metal container makes all the difference—both for the unique sounds made as peas drop onto the metal and enhancing the taste of fresh-picked early peas. As I let the vividness of this remembering float upon my mind, so too do my sense of smell and hearing get in on the act, serving to further enliven the images.
First, using thumb and first finger, I gently squeeze the middle of the peapod, while listening . . . there it is, the quaint crisp sound as the seam unseals in agreement that you may take its small, sweet orbs. Next, I slide my thumb inside the pod, hearing the tiniest hint of a pop as each pea is broken free of its umbilical connection to the pod parent, which frees them to leap out and fall into my lap where the metal pan waits to collect them. Oh, the pan certainly might be shiny and new, but obviously I prefer one somewhat shiny, but definitely looking maltreated. When they escape from their spring-green pod, they fall . . . down . . . down . . . down . . . and then drop with a sound unique to semi-hard orbs striking the bottom of a metal pan.
Splat – pop – plunk – pop – pop, smack, plunk – ping, plunk – ting, plonk, ping. The sounds stop as the pan shifts when its supporting thighs move, sending the loose peas rolling, rattling and plunking from one side to the other. Then, the popping, plunking and pinging of shelled peas continues until there are so many that the peas no longer strike the metal, instead smacking into the other peas already in the pan. Soon their numbers have increased to the point the sound becomes ever more muffled as they land against the others; only as the former peas whispered greetings or grumbled if too rudely bumped by the new arrivals. When these numbers increased, the sounds became completely muffled—the metal pan now full. The formerly tinny sounds had become like those made by footfalls of fairies on a mossy, woodland path—where there are no metal pans to collect their green shoes.
Oh, I nearly forgot to mentions voices matrixed as part of the melody of shelling peas into metal pans—the deep, melodious one of an older crone (my grandmother) and the younger, lilting one (mine). This chatter – as it was mostly nonsense and whimsical retorts – consisted of much storytelling as a means of teaching and mingling truth with fantasy; other times it was questions asked and answers given. Anyone observing would never notice the subtle insights exchanged with adult to child and child with adult. Indeed, so many dreams and wishes expressed by the child; promises made, although seldom were they all within the abilities or realm of the grandmother crone to make or grant. What I realize now that I surely did not fathom then, this was more than a simple exchange of ideas and information; instead, metaphorically this was the joining of two hearts – no matter that it was the old with the young; the young to the old – as the crone imparted her skills and wisdom to a child with untested psychic abilities. It was probably then somewhere inside that memory that I began blossoming as the pea sprouts; that sharing of ideals, concepts and innate knowledge of the unknown, unseen and supernatural eventually matured as clairvoyance in the child, inspired then as always by the now-deceased gifted seer grandmother. June was her favorite month, as I remember it now so, just like the seed peas planted in rich soil to sprout and grow, finally blossoming and thus producing the mature vessels (peapods) containing so much potential and a legacy to continue forward.
Indeed, ironically this memory of learning from my grandmother over such a simple task, reminds of the enigmatic methodology of the Ancient Mystery Schools—the new peas representing an orb made from wisdom and experience; forever reborn as special intuitive abilities passed from my grandmother (crone) to me as a child—exactly the same as the peas falling, but into a newer and less battered metal pan, which shall forever be grateful to the creator who made even the simple peas and a great expansive Cosmos.
