The storyteller Station 4
I am Inyo. My keywords are Vision hatcher/wind/heart. I am the voice, the storyteller. As the instrument, I am the gun site, the registration marks, the crosshairs, the eyepiece.
Here is the story of Caroling who has come to meet me at the wheel. A deer comes up and Caroling looks into its exceedingly gentle eyes. It is the deer she hit with the car on the Yosemite highway in 1992. Caroling says,
"You can kill me."The deer annihilates Caroling with its horns until all she can see is a pile of Ys. Yet in her place is a tiny token. Caroling goes on as that. A double ring of deer forms around the circle. Almost like kachinas (Hopi indian spirit guides) or Elobeings (members of the new species we are designing) disguised. Could some deer we see be spirits? The spots on the fawns look like the drawing of actual hatched units coming from the mouth.
Actually the whole wheel sort of looks like an open mouth now, with the deer as lips, soft and flexible, around the edge. Of all the things these deer could be, Caroling believes they are the spirits of the ancestors of the tribe, here to guide with wind and heart to tell a meaningful, useful story. Of all the stories that could be told, stick to the one we need, the story with the wind of spirit and the story with the heart of evolution. The deer say that the visions have been laid, like eggs.
Caroling's job is as the parent bird, to hatch the vision. She sees that the parts of the wheel are each a tetrahedron, that is white with golden glowing edges. Each one has a story/vision to be hatched.
The medicine wheel now appears like a god's eye vision catcher that is blowing in the wind. Two sticks crossed, wound around with colored yarn, hanging as a sacrifice to the deer. Dead.
In anything you do, such as carolyoga, realize the importance of taking a pose and then giving the pose to the gods. That is, letting go any exertion or force taken to achieve the pose. So the universe holds you in your reverence, no effort, pure faith.
A story must be like that. It is like a mandala. The story has little plot or adventure, is more a depiction of a scenario or picture. The story being told, the climax is like the yoga pose. The storyteller pauses and all listeners rapt, hold the thought the story has created in them. And all sit quietly in it. Once the story has been transmitted, anyone can go back into the story, enraptured and absorb it.
The stations turn to raisins, Colored Light Being raisins. A thin pillar of cloud twirls within the wheel; it is a spiral coil. These raisins turn to coyotes or wolves in a circle howling up the moon.
A wind whirls the wheel chunks into a melted pool of cosmic juices, like the tigers that whirled around the tree in that children's story about the pancakes, Little Black Sambo. Here we are trickling down to the root crystal point. All chakras are one. Raising vibrations, we arise as an irridescent sparkling, misty cloud within the wheel perimeter. As soft as petals, we find our human body outlines, we return to our wood positions as spokes of a wheel. In the center is a figure, who is the caretaker of the wheel of Inyo. At the hub.
The Inyo forest surrounds the area on both sides of the valley; it is part of the Sierra and White mountains. See Inyo as a ring of trees, too, with a wreath of wheel chunks.
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© 1997, 1998, 2000 Caroling All rights reserved. This page last modified: Jun 19 2000