"Jack Mandora, Keeper of the Story Door" Day 5

 🎃 31 Days of Caribbean Folklore—Day 5

Welcome, my dears, to our 31 Days of Caribbean Folklore. Today our story comes from Jamaica—and it is about the one whose name you have heard at the end of every tale.

WHERE THIS STORY COMES FROM

Every Anansi story in Jamaica ends the same way: "Jack Mandora, mi nuh chuuz none." Generations of children have said those words—but few stop to ask who Jack Mandora is.

His roots reach back to the Akan lands of West Africa, where storytellers believed every tale carried power. A story could teach, warn, bless, or harm, depending on how it was told. So the old people imagined a guardian—a watcher standing at the edge of every tale, making sure the storyteller did not take on the burden of the trickster's deeds.

When our ancestors were carried across the ocean, the stories traveled with them. Gods changed names. Spirits shifted shape. Traditions bent but did not break. And the guardian followed—all the way to Jamaica, where he became Jack Mandora.

THE TALE

Long before Jamaica was Jamaica, before Anansi spun his first web of tricks, there was a quiet crossroads between the worlds—the place where stories are born. At that crossroads stood a single figure: Jack Mandora, the Keeper of the Story Door.

He was not a man, nor a spirit in the way people understand spirits. Jack Mandora was the Listener—the one who heard every tale spoken under moonlight, every proverb whispered around a fire, every lesson wrapped in laughter. His task was simple and sacred: to guard the doorway between truth, mischief, and consequence.

In Jamaica, he became the one who listens at Heaven's gate—the one who knows the difference between the storyteller and the character they describe. When the children finished an Anansi tale, full of greed and cunning and chaos, they spoke the old words:

"Jack Mandora, mi nuh chuuz none."

Jack Mandora, I choose none of these wicked ways.

It was a way of telling the guardian, "I am only repeating the story." Do not judge me for Anansi's mischief.

He was never feared. He was respected—a quiet presence, like someone standing just behind the storyteller, nodding as the tale unfolded. And when the tale ended, he nodded—satisfied—as the storyteller whispered the old words once more.

WHAT IT MEANS TODAY

Jack Mandora still walks with anyone who tells stories. In an age of social media, rumors, and fast-moving narratives, he reminds us that stories have consequences—what we repeat, share, or amplify carries weight.

He is proof of cultural survival: every time those words are spoken, they echo a tradition that endured enslavement, displacement, and centuries of change. He teaches discernment—you can tell a story without becoming it. You can speak of darkness without choosing it. You can learn from trickery without practicing it.

And he stands beside every writer, poet, musician, and creator who feels someone listening—urging them to tell the truth, honor the culture, and respect the power of narrative.

THE RITUAL: JACK MANDORA'S BLESSING FOR STORYTELLERS

For writers, creators, and anyone who works with words—to be spoken before you begin, or whenever the work feels heavy.

Light a white candle. Place your hands near its warmth and say:

"May my words walk clean. May my stories carry truth without burden. May the trickster's lessons sharpen my wisdom but never stain my spirit.

May every tale I tell open a door—and may Jack Mandora stand at that door, guarding my heart from the weight of the worlds I create.

May inspiration find me gently, and may clarity sit beside me like an old friend. May my voice be strong, my vision steady, and my craft protected from doubt, fear, and mischief.

Jack Mandora, Keeper of the Story Gate—watch over this creator, guide my hand, and witness my work with favor.

So the story may be told, but the storyteller remains free."

Blow out the candle. Begin your work.

📥 Download the full blessing: The Jack Mandora Blessing

No moral, just an old warning: tell the tale, but don't take on the trickster's burden—say the words, and walk clean.

Jack Mandora, mi nuh chuuz none…

…listen carefully.

Did you grow up saying the Jack Mandora words at the end of Anansi stories? What did the old people tell you they meant? Tell me below.

*A note of care: workings shared here are for spiritual and cultural purposes—not medical, legal, or financial advice. Practice fire safety, and trust your own judgment and traditions.*

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🛒 Shop ritual & protection supplies: anewagephoenix.com

"Guabancex, Lady of Winds" Day 4

🎃 31 Days of Caribbean Folklore—Day 4

Welcome, my dears, to our 31 Days of Caribbean Folklore. Today our story comes from the Taíno people of these islands—the tale of the lady whose name lives inside the word "hurricane."

WHERE THIS STORY COMES FROM

Long before any flag was planted on these islands, the Taíno people fished these waters and farmed these valleys, and they understood the natural world as alive—every force a being with intention. The earliest written record of their religion comes from Fray Ramón Pané, a priest who lived among them and wrote down what he saw in 1498. He tells us her cult was centered in the territory of the cacique Aumatex and that she was carved in stone—a face with two spiraling arms, turning, turning. It is one of the oldest pictures of a hurricane anywhere in the world.

Her name was Guabancex. And the Taíno word for her spiraling storms—juracán—is the direct ancestor of the English word "hurricane." Every time we say it, we are speaking her name's descendant.

THE TALE

Guabancex was not a gentle mother. She was the Lady of Chaos, the Mistress of Winds, and when she rose from the sea, the whole sky knew it.

Before her ran Guataubá, her herald—thunder in his voice and lightning in his hands, tearing the clouds open so all could see she was coming.

Behind her came Coatrisquie, gathering the waters—rivers rising, seas swelling, floods crashing down on the villages below.

And Guabancex herself at the center, her arms spiraling like the storm winds, the juracán turning around her. The old people carved her exactly as they saw her: a face with two great spiraling arms.

The behiques, the wise ones, would enter the cohoba trance to ask what she wanted. The caciques would lay out food offerings, begging her to spare the crops, to spare the canoes. Sometimes she listened. Often she did not. That was her nature—chaos does not negotiate.

But the people learned her the way you learn a fierce elder: you cannot control her, but you can respect her. You read the signs. You secure the house. You humble your heart. And when she passes, you rebuild—because that is what the people of these islands have always done.

WHAT IT MEANS TODAY

She never left. When a Jamaican grandmother says, "The storm is angry," when a Puerto Rican fisherman reads the clouds and decides not to go out, when any of us feels the air go heavy and strange before the winds come—that is Guabancex's worldview, alive in our mouths.

In recent years, Taíno descendants have reclaimed her openly—as Indigenous identity, as female power, as a reminder of ecological respect. Her spiral face appears in art, in tattoos, and in festivals. And as the storms grow stronger with the changing climate, her meaning sharpens: nature out of balance and a people who have always known how to endure it.

We survive storms. We rebuild. We rise stronger. That was true in Aumatex's time, and it is true now.

THE RITUAL: CALLING THE EYE OF CALM

When your life feels storm-tossed—everything spinning, nothing steady—the old people would say Guabancex is passing through. This is a modern working inspired by her symbolism, not a Taíno ceremony (those belonged to the behiques, and they were sacred). It is a way to find your own eye of calm.

You will need a bowl of water, a candle, and a spiral drawn on paper—her turning arms.

Dim the lights. Set the spiral before you, the candle to the left, the water to the right.

Light the candle and say, "Guataubá, bring me clarity. Coatrisquie, carry away what no longer serves me. Guabancex, Lady of Storms—I honor your power, and I seek your calm."

Trace the spiral slowly with your finger, moving inward. As you go, say, "I walk into the storm." When you reach the center, pause, breathe, and say, "I find the eye. I find my calm." Sit in that stillness a while—the winds circle, but they do not touch you.

Dip your fingers in the water and say, "Coatrisquie, take this from me." Name what you want washed away—fear, anger, confusion, old heaviness—and let each one fall into the water with your touch.

Hold your hands near the candle's warmth and say, "Guataubá, give me strength to rebuild."

Then place your hand over the spiral and say, "Guabancex, Lady of Winds—I honor your chaos, I welcome your clarity, and I rise renewed."

Blow out the candle. Let the water sit a few minutes, then pour it onto the earth outside.

📥 Download the full ritual: Ritual of Guabancex—Calling the Eye of Calm

No moral, just an old warning: when the winds turn strange and the sea goes quiet, the Lady is rising—secure your house and humble your heart.

Jack Mandora, mi nuh chuuz none…

…listen carefully.

Have you ever felt the air change before a storm—that heavy, waiting stillness? Tell me what it felt like.

*A note of care: workings shared here are for spiritual and cultural purposes—not medical, legal, or financial advice. Practice fire safety, and trust your own judgment and traditions.*

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🛒 Shop ritual & protection supplies: anewagephoenix.com

Br'er Anansi & the Loophole

🎃 31 Days of Caribbean Folklore — Day 3

Welcome, my dears, to our 31 Days of Caribbean Folklore. Today our story comes from Jamaica.

The dry season had the village holding its breath. The headman called everyone to the square and laid down the law: "No one eats before I eat. The food stays covered till I lift the first spoon. That way, no belly goes before another."

Anansi bowed low. "A fair rule, Headman. A fair rule."

By midday, the smell of the pot was walking through the village on its own two feet, knocking on every door. Anansi sat in his yard watching the pot-house, and his stomach was making speeches.

He strolled over, casual as you please. "Headman," he said, "someone must make sure the food is fit for you. What if the salt is wrong? What if it turned? Let me taste—one spoon—so you don't lift a spoiled spoon before the people."

The headman frowned, but the logic held. "One spoon."

Anansi tasted. "Hmm. The pepper might be shy. Let me check again—for you, Headman." Another spoon. "And the salt—a cook's hand slips. One more, to be sure."

Spoon by spoon, taste by taste, Anansi "checked" the pot all afternoon. He never ate—oh no. He only tasted. And tasting, as everybody knows, is not eating.

By sundown, when the headman lifted the first spoon before the people, the pot sat light—and Anansi sat back with a full belly and a clean conscience.

THE ROOTS:

Anansi crossed the ocean with our people, from Akan tradition into Caribbean storytelling. When you cannot overpower the one who makes the rules, you outthink him. That is Anancyism—meeting hardship with humor, nerve, and the perfect loophole. The trickster is not always noble, but he is rarely powerless.

THE RITUAL: FINDING THE OPENING

The old people kept Anansi close whenever the rules were made by full bellies:

1. When a rule boxes you in, read it back word for word—out loud.

2. Ask what it does NOT forbid. The gap is always in what's unsaid.

3. Walk through the gap cleanly—and never brag at the table. Anansi's true skill wasn't the tasting; it was keeping his face straight.

No moral, just an old warning: when the pot is covered, watch who's doing the tasting.

Jack Mandora, mi nuh chuuz none…

…listen carefully.

What is the cleverest Anansi story you remember? 

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WHY ANANSI HAS THIN LEGS

🎃 31 Days of Caribbean Folklore — Day 2

Welcome, my dears, to our 31 Days of Caribbean Folklore. Today our story comes from Jamaica—the tale of how the spider got his long, thin legs.

WHERE THIS STORY COMES FROM

Anansi is older than the Caribbean itself. He comes from the Akan people of Ghana, where the elders gathered the children and called these tellings "Anansesem"—spider stories. He crossed the Atlantic tucked into the memory of our ancestors, and he took root in Jamaica, in Trinidad, on every island where our people set foot.

The spider is small, but his wit is bigger than any strongman alive. And that is precisely why the old people kept him close: when you cannot overpower the one who holds the whip, the law, or the purse—you outthink him.

THE TALE

Every dinner was ready at once, and Anansi couldn't resist.

In the old days, when the village cooked, the smell of it traveled. One evening, word came that Rabbit was stewing a pot, and down the road Monkey was roasting, and by the river Hog had a feast on the fire—all at the same hour.

Anansi's stomach made the decision before his head could. He could not be in three places at once—unless.

He tied a string to each of his eight legs and handed the ends to the cooks. "Tug when the food is ready," he said, "and whichever tugs first, that's where I'll eat." Then he settled himself at the crossroads to wait.

Then—tug. Tug-tug. TUG.

Every pot was ready at once. Every cook pulled at once. And Anansi was stretched eight ways at the crossroads, pulled long and thin, while the dinners went cold and the laughter went hot.

When they finally let go, he gathered himself up—and his legs were as thin as thread. And thin they stayed.

The old people laughed telling it, and the children laughed hearing it. And somewhere inside the laughing, the lesson landed all by itself: greed will stretch you thin, and everybody will see it.

WHAT IT MEANS TODAY

We still tell this one whenever somebody is doing too much. Two jobs, three obligations, every invitation answered yes—stretched eight ways at the crossroads, just like Anansi.

In the Caribbean, mothers still warn their children not to be "too Anansi"—not to chase every advantage, not to trick every situation. Cleverness is a gift, but cleverness without wisdom will stretch you thin, and everybody will see it.

THE RITUAL: THE TELLING

Anansi stories were never just told—they were kept.

At night, at nine-night wakes, on the veranda after supper, one voice would begin: "Crick crack"—and the whole circle would answer. The story belonged to everyone in the circle, and the trickster belonged to no one.

If you want to keep the old way, gather at nightfall, let one voice begin, let every voice answer, and let the children laugh. That is how the lesson survives—not in the teaching, but in the telling.

No moral, just an old warning: don't tie your legs to every pot in the village.

Jack Mandora, mi nuh chuuz none…

…listen carefully.

What Anansi tale did you grow up on? 

📥 Download the full ritual: ritual-untangling-the-strings.pdf

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31 Days of Caribbean Folklore

 🎃 31 Days of Caribbean Folklore

Every day this October, one story from the islands—told the way the old people told it, with the ritual that goes with it and the warning at the end.

Follow along daily. New stories appear below as they're published.

THE STORIES

Day 5 — Anansi

Day 6 — The Lagahoo (Trinidad)

Day 7 — Papa Bois

Day 8 — The Douens (Trinidad)

Day 9 — Jumbie Night

Day 10 — The Mocko Jumbie (Virgin Islands)

Days 11–31—coming as the month unfolds.

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taylor swift - willow (official music video)

Why We Should All Be Keeping Coronavirus Journals

Keeping a journal in these uncertain times may prove to be so important. The world has been turned upside down, sometimes only the bad drop out. Keeping a diary will help us remember the good and bad times along with the gratitude we have towards each other.

While social media is fighting about the who, what, where and how. It seems our feelings can get in the way of what's rational. We suppress our feelings just to shelter each others feelings. Those feelings have to go somewhere, chronicling our feelings may help us through these times. A journal it can be factual, original and soul searching at the same time.

These are interesting times the medical field will spend the next decades studying this coronavirus and COVID-19. Epidemiologists, doctors, researchers and even hospital administrators are already busily studying how this pandemic has happened, what it is doing to our bodies and how to respond.  But historians, while busy now putting current events into historical context, will not begin actively studying our times for another 30 years or so. And they will need our help.

Wolf leather blank book w/ latch

While most of our Facebook debates will likely be lost to time, at least some of our tweets will be saved by the Library of Congress for posterity. But these public sources will be just snippets of our present. Historians will need other sources to be able to understand, and learn from, our times. They will need more to ensure that the stories that are so often lost to the past are told. Oral histories and personal journals will be vital tools to take their understanding beyond the headlines.

One of the most famous talked about diary's  is The Diary of a Young Girl, also known as The Diary of Anne Frank,  the diary was written while she was in hiding for two years with her family she wrote about her feelings and frustration of her situation.  One passage in her diary, reads: "I'm afraid they'll mock me, think I'm ridiculous and sentimental and not take me seriously". 

Her last know extract:

Anne Frank

Dearest Kitty,

"A bundle of contradictions" was the end of my previous letter and is the beginning of this one. Can you please tell me exactly what "a bundle of contradictions" is? What does "contradiction" mean? Like so many words, it can be interpreted in two ways: a contradiction imposed from without and one imposed from within.

The former means not accepting other people's opinions, always knowing best, having the last word; in short, all those unpleasant traits for which I'm known. The latter, for which I'm not known, is my own secret.

So it seems that Journaling our personal thoughts, our highs and lows can be very therapeutic and historically important.

Mystic Aura journal

sources
Anne frank House
nytimes
Wikipedia