The Land of Delight

poems, fragments, longing and beauty during times of collapse

I recently told a rewilded version of the Ojibway legend, The Lost Girl of Little Girl’s Point. The story is deeply meaningful to me. It found me unexpectedly when I returned ‘home’ in the fall of 2005, to the house of my adolescence in upper Michigan near Lake Superior, to write a mythopoetic coming of age memoir, to rewild my adolescent voice.

Literally, the story of Little Red Riding Hood led me to the forest of story. I was called to home as my grandmother was transitioning. Little Red was my grandmother’s favorite story too. The braids of fairytale and the personal storylines merged. My grandmother died 3 days after I returned home. I dove deeply into the belly of the wolf of Story. Searching ancestor stories. Place stories. Lost stories. Lost daughter stories. Lost girl stories. My lost stories.

While searching, I came across an Ojibway story about a Lost Girl -It’s a story also referred to as The girl and the faeries. A gentleman in an art gallery shared an old newspaper from the early 1900’s in which an Ojibway woman named Little Bee had shared the story of the Lost Girl of Little Girl’s Point, a place I had known as a child -where I’d go for summer camp, or to gather polished stones near the lake edge. The Lost Girl found me as I was extracting my lost stories. A maiden who leaves the world as she knows it, after falling in love with the wild green men of the woods -the Puckwudginee as they are known in the Ojibway/Anishinabe language.

Photo: Unknown

I tracked her origin story into the woods, near the lake shore. That land is one of my first wildlings. It is a love language that grew roots into me, from the edges where she disappeared into blackberry brambles, into thimbleberry, into the deep moss of wild remembering. To the pine tree grove -To the Sacred Grove -Manitowok -the temple of the Puckwudginee -where no one else dared go.

Photo: Alessio Albi

I imagined that she was my mythic twin -my other -my double -tending the lost stories in the deep woods with the never grow old wild men and women of the woods. At the location where they say she disappeared, I discovered entire villages built by an unnamed someone, tiny tiny villages in the sand -intricate, elaborate -for the tiny people of the wild woods. In her honor. In honor of the puckwudginee.

I like to tell her story this time of year. For me, it aligns to the Festival or Shining Day, Beltaine, as it connects me to the erotic bloom of wild remembering. Longing. The longing for return. To merge. With nature. Or other. To remember the land of delight within and without. To break away from old stories that are stale or dry. To be led by the stories that bloom the heart into awakening, into joy, into pleasure, into possibility.

Lost Daughters, what are your lost stories? What are your stories of Longing? What are your blooming stories? What are you merging towards this time of year?

Photo: Alessio Albi

As I sat with the story this year, before telling it, I looked into the name Leelinau, and discovered that Leelinau in Ojibway, as a place name, means Land of Delight. I’m going with that. In the story, Leelinau the maiden leaves the old village, the old world, the old story. She leaves her fate to be married to an old warrior. She follows her heart’s throbbing devotion. She prefers the company of her shadow to the tribal council. She prefers the company of trees to the gossip of women as they weave baskets. She prefers the sacred places. The hidden places. The secret edge walking places. She leaves behind all that she knows -she rejects the story laid out for her. She chooses her own story.

Photo: unknown

I gathered last Friday with a few woman to tell the story, to guide them into the story through writing prompts, storytelling and poetry. We write. We also cross the threshold of voice -to speak aloud the writings, to move the energy of the story more deeply into body. As we listen to women share, we catch words or phrases and reflect them back. We echo back a waterfall of ripples. To reflect. To witness. To see and be seen.

I caught a words and phrases from the participants. I’d like to share with you the buds and blooms of wild remembering from their sharings, caught by the net of my own longing -in no particular order, blooming fragments:

free spirit. my homecoming. sovereignty. nature’s glory sees me.

into the garden of fire. where are you? I ask over and over for your whereabouts.

bark. motion. dance. flow. receptive now. sacred holy now.

my remember burns my lips. walls of my trembling. through the through. for ebbs. through. river wild. I die wild. I live wild. woman man touching. slow the no. you go on. heart where is my heart? in you? touch that place. loving tonic kiss.

trapped in laughter and song. dry my tears.

I am the authentic wedding dress. ready to be worn. quivered. slightest of breeze. kissable. wild twirling. taste the stars thru the windows.

rewilded crone. missed my exit. mother escaped herself. whisper. we will not return.

i’m so feral.

I am connecting to nature. green summit glade trembling. each step communion. prayer. promise.

where are you? following scent. nostrils twitching. into the unknown. the nose knows.

into lava. an ocean of love meant for me.

except for your trembling legs.

lost tongue.

fishermans net.

palace deep.

wanting wanton.

fountain of yesses

Watercolor Art: Tijana Lukovic

I am the Land of Delight, by Stasha Ginsburg

I am the Land of Delight. My body, a bed of moss. Orchids peek-a-boo from the folds of my skin, scenting the air with song.

I am the Land of Delight. My eyes, a lake, changing with tides.

I am the Land of Delight. Shimering inside the bud of the Bloom.

I am the Land of Delight. Opening my heart. Wondering, wandering into a whole new world.

I am the Land of Delight. A feast of senses with depth of night. Sliver of moon for mystery tune.

I am the Land of Delight. Breathing in the breath of spirit. Breathing out inspiration.

I am the Land of Delight. Deepening into roots. Crowning a new Green.

I am the Land of Delight. The land of yes and bird song and possibility.

I am the Land of Delight. I am the land of my own song.

Opening to the land of joy and play.

I am

In devotion to remembering

Remembering the Body as vessel

Remembering devotion as temple

Remembering voice as threshold

Remembering truth as guide

Remembering self as holy whole

Remembering the path, the way, the beauty of dance.

This is my vow. My Church.

The Church of the Holy Wild Remembering.

Artist: Tijana Lukovic

Where are you? by Stasha Ginsburg

Where are you She asks the still quiet apple green aspen.

Where are you? She asks thereon, the sun, the stars.

Is it really ok to ask the holiest question?

Where are you —but who? and why? and where? and how?

Just ask the question. Let it cross your lips. Let it spill forth into a new country.

Let it moisten the dew of the story. Let it christen the question.

Art: Tijana Lukovic