Lord Triton’s Dream

We floated, light as feathers, in a darkness so complete that it was filled with all and nothing. The heavens were not created and named. The earth was not yet created and named. There existed only the great deepness in which all things dwelled and yet did not. Then the deepness filled with water, and above the water a wind arose, and they mingled and danced over the nothingness, into which no gods had yet been born and no destinies ordained.

Then, the first gods were called into being in a thought, and in their wisdom, in turn, they bore many children and gave to each a realm in which to dwell and over which to rule. The deep waters were given to Enki, and to him, too, the sacred powers of the Me*. He became the shaper of the world, god of wisdom and all magic, lord over the great deep, and father of the god-like.

And Enki danced, with the great goddesses, he danced, and he lay with them and fathered many children. And he fought fierce battles with his brothers, he fought, and saved both gods and mortals through gifts of knowledge, when destruction threatened. And he sang in the seas, he sang, and called men to venture abroad in ships, and to some he gifted knowledge of the Me.

Great Enki saved Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth, he saved her, from the hands of Ereshkigal, exiled in the irkalla, the great below. And he wept salt tears for Ereshkigal, who was feared and cast from the land of the living, so the god-like need not face their own shame.

And he soared and crested on the great waves and rode in a coach pulled by dolphins, he rode. He built his palaces of gold on the ocean bed and was revered by the powerful and the wise.

And in the second world he swam the middle seas and sent out his folk to guide seafarers through the night. Poseidon and Triton he was, both father and son, and he sang to the stars, he sang, and the stars bowed down to him and the peoples of the world praised him.

In the third age he watched as a bright star led kings and wisemen to a sacred place, to herald the birth of another god-like. He rejoiced, for the gods of his ilk had long withdrawn from the mortal world.

And he rode on the wind and danced under the winter sun. He spoke with the giant whales who carried his word far and wide. And he begat many children to fill his world with laughter.

All this the Triton dreamed, and I with him. And through his dream I felt his power, his joy, and his triumphs. I knew his being and becoming, his sorrows and his longings. I knew the spirit of water, the taste of sea foam, the keening of sea-folk for souls long passed into the otherworlds. I knew what is was to be cradled by an ocean swell, to watch the procession of human lives flitting past, like mayflies on a spring evening, and what it meant to be called by the piping of the golden conch.

The dream ebbed, and Lord Triton and I floated in silence for what seemed to me like a very long time.

Eventually he spoke. “I have no dream seeds to offer you”; he said, “and all I can do is hope that you will find a way to see your own dream and someone to dream it with you, if that is your wish.”

He held out a hand to me. In his palm lay a small piece of delicately folded jet black coral.

“Take this, and give it to the Keeper of Mudjimba. And now, fare thee well, for we are unlikely to meet again, though I should be honoured if we were to do so.”

I bowed, for I knew that even though he could not see, the water would carry my sentiment to him. Then, with the sliver of coral held tightly in my fist, I swam out of the Triton’s cave and up through the clear river waters into the light.

Captain Sorensen was already on board the Esmerelda. She helped me on board and handed me a thick towel with which to dry myself off.

“Ready to dock at Mudjimba?” she asked.

I nodded. “Ready to dock at Mudjimba.”
* Me (Sumerian) = The gifts of civilized living.

Lord Triton’s Dream is based loosely on the first tablet of
the Babylonian creation story, the Enuma Elish.
http://www.sacred-texts.com/ane/enuma.htm

Triton’s Realm

We both stripped off and dived into the river, followed by the band of merfolk. The water was clear and warm, and as my eyes adjusted to the water, I saw fields of coral and brightly colored plants spread out before me. Shoals of tiny blue fish darted forward to nibble from the reef, then shied back, as if at an unheard command. Anemones swayed like dancers in the current, seahorses inched their way between branches of coral and sea grass, and large fish patrolled the reefs and gullies, as if keeping order in their undersea world.

Two of the merfolk swam alongside of me and signalled for me to grasp their hands. I looked over to the captain. She nodded. So, I allowed myself to be led.

We swam deeper and deeper into the clear water, down past the reefs, past bare rocks and underwater grottos, down into the realm of the water folk drifting and swirling around us. I’d had no idea that so much life existed unseen but a few steps from the world in which I lived. Eventually we swam into a large cave and into the presence of a creature who looked like the other merfolk but was larger and much, much older. Only then did it occur to me that all the merfolk I’d seen, apart from this one, looked young. I was in no doubt that I’d arrived in the presence of the legendary Tanagran Triton.

The triton had the torso of a man and the tail of a dolphin, with a band of loose scales, like a skirt, between the two. His face was obscured by a curtain of long hair the green of fern algae and it flowed and eddied around him in the underwater current, as if alive in its own right.

The merfolk who had brought me to him withdrew and left me standing in the center of the cave alone, facing the Triton.

A Strange Conversation

“Who are you, mortal”, he demanded, “and why are you here?”

He sounded neither friendly nor particularly interested.

“I am a traveller who wishes to pay her respects to the mighty Triton and bid his permission to enter Mudjimba”, I replied.

“You and many others, it seems”, came his response. His voice was tinged with boredom, as if our exchange were merely a ritual he tad taken part in more often that he cared to remember.

“And what can you offer as your toll?”

I thought for a moment before replying. “What might please thee, Lord Triton?”

He flexed his tail, sending the fronds of his hair whirling. “I have no need of gold and bright stones and garlands”, he said, but you might provide the answer to a question, if you are able.”

My spine tingled. My experience of the mythworld was sufficient to tell me that our conversation was taking a turn that might lead anywhere, possibly into some kind of danger. Like most travellers, I also knew that many of the mythfolk were wont to play strange games with their guests. The merfolk were legendary in that respect. I decided to play for time, in the hope that his real wish would become clear before I made a commitment I might be unable, or unwilling, to keep.

“What kind of question might that be, Lord Triton? If I am able, I will gladly offer an answer, though I doubt the power of a mortal to answer any question of interest to someone who embodies the wisdom of ages.”

He thrashed his tail, and I sensed his anger. “Save your pat words, woman! And look at me!”

Mighty Triton swept aside the hair that had covered his face, and I gazed into his eyes.

He spoke slowly, with a brief pause between each word: “Show me who I am, woman. For I no longer have the power to see it myself. Who… am… I?”

We stood in our silence, for I knew he expected no pistol shot answer. I looked into the eyes of the mighty Triton. I gazed into eyes that could not look back into mine, for the Triton’s eyes were milky with the veil of blindness.

Seconds passed, then he exhaled with a deep sigh, his energy visibly spent, and allowed the curtain of hair to sway back across his features.

“Tell me, Lord Triton,” I ventured, “do you ask this question of all who pass here?”

Moments passed before he answered. “Not of all,” he replied. “Not of the young or of the gay in spirit, not of the dreamers and the bold, not of the lovers or the beautiful, for theirs is a different kind of life and a different journey.”

I nodded, then remembered… “Yes”, I said, “I can understand that.”

Our encounter had taken a turn I would not have imagined. I tried to remember everything I’d heard about the merfolk, and about tritons in particular, in the hope some idea would occur to me, and that I might be able to offer some kind of answer to Lord Triton’s question.

Carefully, I posed a question… “What of immortality, Lord Triton?”

He seemed to gaze into nothingness. “Ah, yes”, he replied eventually, “…. what of it, indeed? Once it was a promise, but now it shows its other face. The fates of immortals are tied forever to those of the human world. Though we may not die, we pass from memory into forgetfulness and fade to become mere shadows of our selves. We, too, forget, but not enough. Our memories are like wraiths; they haunt and torment us, but escape our grasp. As humans turn from our world, we are obliged to fade from theirs. When that happens, we, too, forget who we are and what purpose our existence serves. Though we cannot die, neither may we fully live, when the vision of our world thins in yours.”

They were the words of a tired man whose weariness would not be assuaged through sleep alone. They were the words of a once mighty Lord Triton who had lost his vision in both senses of the word. A hunch told me he that he would probably allow me to pass to Mudjimba one way or the other, but that if I passed without answer, I would simply be one of a stream of humans who had entered and left his world as unseeing as he himself had become.

But I had an idea. I reached for the oilskin pouch at my waist. The knot was difficult to untie underwater, but eventually I managed t open it and fumbled in my bag for one of the tiny items.

“A dream, Lord Triton. I possess dream seeds. I can offer you a dream. And in your dream you may remember who you are.”

I had no idea whether the dream seeds would work that way, but I thought it might be worth a try.

The Triton gazed in my direction. “Then dream with me”, he said. “It has been a long time since I shared a dream with another soul.”

His response surprised me. I had little understanding of the working of dream seeds and no way of knowing whether they could enable two to share a dream, but I was touched by his loneliness.

“Yes”, I said. I opened the packet of dream seeds to find perhaps twenty in a variety of shimmering, opalescent colors. I pondered for a moment then removed two identical, tiny seeds in shades of deep ocean water and sea grass.

He held out a hand.

I placed one seed in his palm and held the other in my own as I retied my bag and pouch.

“To dream…”, he said, and swallowed his seed.

“To dream…”, I echoed, placed the tiny seed on my tongue, and swallowed.

The Docks

Tempted as I was by the prospect of meeting other travellers, I felt too tired to visit the Mermaid Inn, and decided the best thing would be to get a good night’s sleep, in readiness for what might await me the next morning.

I woke in the half-light of dawn, and, being an early bird by nature, donned my clothes, packed my belongings, and went down to the breakfast room. A light meal would suffice, for my plan was to purchase some supplies at the produce market before setting off in search of a  boat to ferry me upriver.

Even at such an early hour, the market was a bustling with buyers and vendors haggling over mounds of fruits and grains, vegetables, cheeses and meats. I bought enough to fill a small sack with nourishing items that would sustain me for a day or two in an emergency. Experience had taught me that it always paid to be prepared. Other than that, I decided to trust I would find enough good water to drink, for I didn’t want to burden myself with unnecessary weight.

The docks were busy, too. Three large sea-going ships had tied up during the night and were being unloaded by droves of labourers. At the smaller quays, river boats were taking on passengers and supplies, ready to sail upriver to the many towns and islands that lay along the Kerith. I couldn’t see a boat that looked as if it might be waiting for me, though.

From the docks, I wandered along the seafront in the direction of a marina, where a flotilla of brightly painted fishing boats, yachts, and other small craft was anchored and bobbing lightly on the swell.

Enchanter had been right. I knew it as soon as I saw it. My boat was in the style of a longboat, much like those the ancient Vikings had used to sail the fjords and northern oceans, though the sides were higher. She was called “Esmerelda”. The Esmerelda  measures perhaps thirty feet from bow to stern, with a hull made of weathered, deeply polished dark wood that gleamed in the sunlight and reflected the waves beneath its keel. Midships, a mast half as tall as the boat was long rose into the sky. The canvas was furled, but I could see the sail was painted, and I was curious what it would show when hoisted and filled by a river wind.  There was no sign of anyone on board, so I sat down on the quayside to watch the gulls wheeling and screeching on the wind, while I waited for the captain.

I didn’t have long to wait until the captain came striding along the walkway, leading a donkey laden high with baskets, sacks, and a pair of barrels.  She was a tall woman, lean and muscular, with long flaxen hair braided and pinned to her head, like a crown. She was clad in leather and linen, which was clearly practical, but not at all unfeminine.

She got right to the point. “G’day, Mistress! Captain Sorensen. At your service. If you’ll be so kind as to help me unload the donkey, we can stow the goods and be on our way with the afternoon tide.”

I climbed into the boat. She untied the ropes around the saddles and panniers and passed the baskets, bags and barrels down to me. Together we stowed everything in a small hold beneath the deck planks.

“No need to advertise our wares,” she said, by way of explanation. “There’s still plenty of thieves and river pirates only too ready to relieve a trader of her cargo.”

She led me to a shelter at the ship’s stern. It was simply a sheet of painted canvas that spanned the boat from side to side to keep off sun, wind, and rain. There, she moved a bench aside to reveal a cleverly concealed hatch which covered a smaller hold space than the one we had just filled.

“Stow your things here,” she said.

The shelter was pleasant. It was light and airy and would provided sufficient respite from the elements on our short journey upstream, first to Mudjimba Island, on the other side of the bay, then on to Kerith.

River Crossing

Captain Sorensen was not the most talkative of people, though she was friendly enough when she did have something to say. I had the impression she was the kind of person who spent a lot of time in her own company and felt comfortable that way. While I explored the deck, she jumped back onto the quay and led the donkey to a pen, after which she returned to busy herself with ropes and lines and tackle. Before I fully realised what was happening, she had taken the wheel, turned the prow to face the river, and we were easing our way out of the marina.

“Got to make the most of the weather,  Mistress”, she  said. “It’s difficult to get over to  Mudjimba most of the time. The prevailing winds push water out of the bay, see, and it’s easy to run aground on the sandbanks over by the island. Gotta watch out for the whirlpools, too, when the tide is turning. Esmerelda’s a bit unwieldy. Been to Mudjimba before, Mistress?”

I almost missed the question.

“No”, I replied. “This is my first time.”

She grinned. “Well, then…, can you swim?”

“More or less, ” I said, “though not well. But why do you ask?”

Her grin widened. “Triton”, came the  brief reply.

Then she had mercy on me and explained her mirth. “It’s like this: first time visitors to Mudjimba have to pay their respects to the Tanagran Triton. To do that , you’ll have to dive into what we call “the hole”. It’s perfectly safe, as long as you can swim. It’s just a deep pool between the sandbars and the island. Actually, it’s lovely down there. Lots of corals and fish and so on. And the merfolk, a-course. Gotta make sure you stay on the right side of them. can’t get onto the island unless they give their ok.”

“Do they always give their ok?” I asked.

She thought for a moment. “No”, she said, “not always.”

Once we were clear of the marina, she hoisted the sail, which unfurled to reveal the figure of a mermaid with a turquoise, gold, and emerald green tail, with hair of fine sea grass.

“Esmerelda”, said Captain Sorensen. “Did her myself”, she added, with an evident tone of pride in her voice. “Took me a whole week, last winter.”

Esmerelda was beautiful, and I said so. I wanted to ask a question or two, but the captain suddenly whirled into a flurry of activity, adjusting ropes so the sail would catch the wind, and turning the wheel, to change direction.

It took us some time to cover the short distance across the bay, for we had to tack back and forth to pick up the wind. A hundred yards or so offshore of Mudjimba, the captain trimmed the sail and lowered the anchor.

“Time for a dip”, she said.

It occurred to me that I had no swimsuit.

As if she’d read my mind, the captain looked at me and said, “No need for swim things. Skinny suits do just fine around here.”

I looked around, unsure at first, but decided she was right. I could see no other vessels far and wide, and anyway… it had been a long time since I last swum naked in open water, and I had always wanted to do it again someday. It looked as if that day had arrived.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity in the water around the boat, and a group of swimmers broke water.

The captain stiffened. “Merfolk”, she whispered. “Keep your wits about you, and don’t take everything you see and hear at face value”, she added.

I tucked that item of knowledge away and turned my attention to the practical issue of whether or not to take my pouch with me. I’d been told to carry it on my person at all times, a caution that seemed perfectly reasonable to a traveller in an unknown land, but I hadn’t considered the possibility of diving. I asked the captain what I might best do.

She thought for a moment. “You can get caught without your clothes and find new ones anywhere”, she said, “but your magic is irreplaceable. Best not to be without it.”

She disappeared briefly and returned holding a small oilskin pouch and a leather belt. “Here you go”, she said, handing them to me.

Rainbow Pageant

The crescent of a waning moon hung in the black velvet sky. I couldn’t see any of the constellations with which I was so familiar, and, in looking, it seemed to me that there were many, many more stars in the Lemurian firmament than in that of my own world. A night sky is one of the things that has the power to make my mind dredge up curious little facts. Gazing out into the Lemurian heavens, I thought about how the ancients believed their heroes became constellations, watching over the fate of humans eternally. In that case, Lemuria must have produced many heroes, for the sky was aglow with the light of a million distant suns.

I couldn’t have missed the floating stage if I’d tried. Arcs of laser light crossed the sky, and the rhythm of music led me to it. There must have been a thousand people or more milling around, watching the performances, and clapping exuberantly as each came to a close.

 

The stage was a sight to be seen. It floated, as its name suggests, several yards offshore and was linked to the promenade by a pontoon walkway. A long queue stretched from the entrance to the walkway back into the crowd: probably the performers waiting to take the stage, I reasoned. Sure enough, as one act finished and the applause died down, a large sign hung from the center of the stage flashed a number, and the person at the head of the queue scurried along the walkway and climbed onto the stage. I decided to watch for a while before finding out where I needed to go to get a number of my own.

Seldom have I seen anything so fascinating. The backdrop changed for each performance, adding harmonious lights and images, according to the style and mood of each performer’s offering. I watched as a solo dancer trod out from darkness in to a spotlight, and as the first strains of music reached out across the water, she moved, and the backdrop showed a lakeside scene with wind ripples and delicate, fairylike creatures mirroring the performer’s steps. After a while, the rhythm changed, and drums took over, sending out a raw, archaic beat. Flames rose up behind the dancer. A second person leaped onto the stage, and together they danced an ancient story of power and danger and bravery. The drums beat faster and louder, and the music faded into the background, leaving only the power of rhythm to guide the dancers’ steps. They seemed to dance forever, and then their dance ended abruptly with a loud drum beat. As they stood on the stage, panting from their exertion, the crowd roared and clapped, as if it would never cease, and I found myself cheering them, too.

As carefully as I could, I edged through the spectators and toward the waiting performers and asked the last woman in line where I could get a number for the stage. Like me, she was dressed in travelling clothes and carried a pack and staff.

“Are you on the Enchanter’s journey?”, she inquired.

I said I was.

She offered me her hand. Her grasp was firm and determined.

“Then, come to the Mermaid Tavern on Market Square later, if you like. There are a few of us still here at Rainbow Beach, and we drop by the Mermaid to meet. That’s, unless your boat leaves tonight”, she added.

“I don’t know about my boat, yet”, I replied. “I thought I might look for it in the morning.” Then I asked her when the performances stopped for the night.

“They don’t”, she told me, “or at least not at a fixed time. The stage is open for as long as performers want to use it. And tonight will probably be a long one, because of the soul singers.”

At that point, I couldn’t imagine what should be so particularly special about people singing soul music that it would keep Lemurians from their beds. My incredulity must have showed.

She laughed.

“Not that kind of soul music. Lemurian soul music. It’s ummm… Oh, wait until it happens. You’ll understand more then that I could possibly explain.”

She pointed me in the direction of the ticket booth where I would be given a number for the stage. I promised to look by the Mermaid Tavern that night, if I wasn’t too tired.

At the ticket booth I was given a number and told it would likely be an hour or more until my turn was called. I made my way to the harbour wall and found a place to stand, right across from the stage.

One after the other, as their numbers were called, singers, poets, conjurers, fire eaters, and pantomime artists, and more took the stage and entertained us splendidly. But it was more than mere entertainment: in what they did, each of the performers showed us something of who they were and of the work to which they had been called in their lives.

The Soul Singers

Just before midnight, there were only three numbers before mine, and I had just decided it was time for me to move off to join the queue. Then it happened. As the last chords of a particularly skilled piano recital drifted off into the night, and the pianist left the stage to loud applause, instead of flashing out the next number, the light extinguished, and a man with a microphone strode to the center of the stage. A murmur of expectancy passed through the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen”, he announced, “the soul singers have arrived and are ready to perform for you. The programme will continue when the soul singers have completed their service.”

First the stage went dark, then stars appeared both on the backdrop and floor of the stage, making it merge seamlessly with the night. One by one, soft spotlights faded in, each focused on a figure in a long gown of dusky grey and shimmering gold. Many of the people on the stage held or sat by musical instruments — flutes, harps, violins, cymbals, small drums, and other percussion instruments — others simply stood in the light, looking toward the crowd. Had I not known they were standing on a stage, I’d have sworn they were floating in mid air, above the gentle river swell.

As one, they began to sing a single, long note, which they held for what seemed an eternity, and then extended into a simple, three note chant. I heard the overtones emerge, eery and beautiful, like the songs of angels. My spine tingled. Almost imperceptibly at first, the musicians drew sounds from their harps and cymbals into the music. Then followed the violins and soft drumming. I was enraptured, I felt myself slipping into a light trance and the cares of the day slipping from me.

After several minutes of chanting, two women, one very young, the other old, with flowing silver grey hair, stepped out to the front of the stage and wove a song into the chant. In her part, the younger woman asked questions, and the older woman answered them in hers. They sang in a language I could not easily follow at first, but as the song continued, I found myself able to grasp more and more. Their song recounted a myth about the creation of the worlds and of the passing between them. In the nature of all ritual songs, it spoke of the pain of loss and the hope of reunion, of the passing of darkness and the emergence into light, of despair and hope, of death and the eternal power of love.

Then the singers parted to stand on each side of the stage, and more and more voices joined in the antiphony, while others maintained the harmonics. I became aware of many of the people around me singing and chanting one or other part of the same song.

Slowly, a landscape appeared against the starry sky of the backdrop. The heavens faded into the background and a view of hills and lakes and woodlands came into focus, bathed in a light that exuded warmth, comfort, and serenity. People passed through the landscape, some a distance away, others in the foreground, so that it was easy to make out their features. I heard sighs and low sobs from here and there in the crowd, and when I looked around me, some of the people were gazing enraptured at the images, tears in their eyes.

Still the song continued, creating an atmosphere of peace and acceptance. I realised that some verses of the song were traditional and that others addressed specific individuals, presumably people around me, by name, for as names were woven into the verses, I heard occasional cries of “here!” and “yes!” and “listen!”, sometimes followed by excited exchanges of chatter or by soft crying.

Eventually, the scene faded and the stars took on their original brightness. The choirs and musicians merged once more, and the main singers melted back into the group. The singing ceased, the chants reverted to a single note that tapered off softly into the night. Then the stage darkened completely, and it was all over.

The crowd on the dockside was still and for the most part silent. Several minutes passed before the usual milling and chatter resumed. Intuitively, I understood why such a large number of people had gathered to hear the soul singers, for I, too, felt more at peace than I had for a long time, even though I hadn’t understood everything at a logical level, and even though none of the verses had been for me.

A new number flashed out from the stage, so I picked up my pack and staff and made my way to take my place in the queue of performers waiting for their turn.

Half an hour or so later, my number flashed above the stage and I stepped onto the walkway. It occurred to me that I’d forgotten to ask about the backdrop and how the images were selected. At the steps to the stage, I was greeted by a stage manager. I asked about the backgrounds. He smiled, and I had a hunch that he had been asked this by many of the non-Lemurian performers that night. Hastily, he explained that I should not worry and that the vibration of my own energy and that of my presentation would be translated into the appropriate background imagery.

I mounted the steps and walked across to the center of the stage, which had been marked with a large circle that showed performers where to stand.

In our brief encounter, Enchanter had instructed me to present three things: something old, something new, and something borrowed.

My choices had been easy, for I am not prone to indecision or stage fright, And so I began with the old: a poem I had written three years before this night, without knowing that it would ever be heard or read by others.

The stage lights dimmed and a fine mist spread across the floor, backlit by dim footlights. Of course, I couldn’t see the backdrop, but my curiosity was piqued when I heard gasps of what I took to be amazement from the spectators on the dockside. I cleared my throat and spoke:

When You Are Croning

When you are croning
the night
will be your ally and
death will blow you kisses
from the threshold
between the worlds.

You will have
more friends in the Otherworld
than in this, and hunger
for their love
will layer itself upon your soul
until it robes you in a shimmering veil.

When you are croning
you will shun the busy-ness world
and journey within to
travel exquisite landscapes.

You will learn to speak an
ancient tongue,
your truth will ring
and wound and heal
and your anger rise to burn its way
through the wild flesh of your life.

When you are croning
You will come to treasure
wrinkled, grey-haired women
and their soft belly flesh.

You will learn
the preciousness of touch
and the art of
folding memories into your skin,
ready to carry them with you
into eternity.

For the something new, I presented a work that has been in progress for some time but is coming to completion: a shrine to a sanctuary from my childhood days.

As a girl, I lived in a village on an island just off the coast of the south of England. On the beach was a ruined church tower, all that was left of a church that had been eaten away by the tides. I’d climb up the inside of the tower, using jutting stones that had once borne a stairway, as hand- and footholds. Halfway up was a wide window ledge that looked out to sea. I’d sometimes sit there for hours with a book, an apple, and something to drink.

Since then, as I discovered on a visit several years back, the beach has been landscaped, and the tower made safe and closed. It is no longer much like the sanctuary of my girlhood, but it remains dear to me.

For the something borrowed, I presented some of Susan Kapuscinski Gaylord’s “Spirit Books”, accompanied by one of my most beloved pieces of listening by Enya.

Spirit Books – Susan Kapuscinski Gaylord
View or download a 36-page pdf
http://www.susankapuscinskigaylord.com/spiritbooks.html

Spirit Books – individual examples
http://ingoodspirit.blogspot.com/search/label/Spirit%20Books
http://endicottstudio.typepad.com/endicott_redux/2007/03/spirit_books.html 

All through my performance, I perceived changes in the lighting and atmosphere on the stage, but I saw little, for I was focused on my words and actions. It must have been impressive, though, for the spectators sighed and clapped and gasped, and as I left the stage and retraced my steps along the walkway, I heard kind words, for which I was grateful.

Example of Harmonics
http://www.harmonicworld.com/