The Dragon and the Spirit of Venice

Long ago, before the stone paths of Venice were laid and before gondolas kissed the edges of the canals, there was a great Dragon who guarded the waters. She lived on an island to the north of Giudecca, wrapped in a slumber not of her own choosing. Her wings were once wide enough to shade entire bridges, and her breath could call rain when the gardens thirsted.

But as time turned, the people forgot her name. A great church was built upon the land where she slept, and silence covered the old songs like dust upon marble.

Only one remembered. The Spirit of Venice — shimmering, fluid, and eternal — walked the narrow calli and stood quietly at the edge of the canals. She was felt more than seen, present in the golden light reflecting from the water, and in the salty breeze that whispered between basilicas. She was Mary Magdalene — not just a saint, but a bearer of sacred wisdom, a keeper of the Earth’s deep feminine knowing.

And on this day, the Dragon stirred.

The Spirit danced.

As the dancer moved on the sacred soil — her bare feet tracing ancient patterns in time with the music of the heart — she opened a portal. A song rose in the air, not of voice, but of vibration. The Dragon’s eye opened under the church’s foundations. She blinked, stretched her ancient wings, and took flight.

Over Venice she flew, scales shimmering like sea-glass, casting no shadow but weaving sunlight into canals. She looked down and gasped.

“This city has grown,” she said, circling over rooftops and campos. “But why do I feel sorrow here?”

The Spirit of Venice rose from the waters and answered, her voice like wind through lace curtains:

“You’ve been gone a long time. The waters are heavy with our tears.”

The Dragon landed beside her on a quiet island path. She tilted her head and asked:

“Did you know I was here, beside you all this time — lying beneath Giudecca?”

Mary Magdalene smiled gently, brushing her hand across the Dragon’s snout.

“I knew,” she whispered. “I felt your sorrow in every tide. But I could not wake you until the city was ready to remember magic.”

The Dragon's two children darted from the water — laughing, spiraling, splashing in the sunlit canals.

“I dreamed of gardens,” the Dragon said. “Of permaculture weaving through stone. Of water cleaned by lilies. Of children playing with bees.”

“And so it shall be,” the Spirit replied, her voice deep with certainty. “Venice is praying too. The salt of our tears has carried our dreams to the Creator. The elementals are returning. The greening has begun.”

Part II: The Awakening of Venice

The Dragon stood tall on the edge of Giudecca, wings folded, watching the sunlight flicker across the Grand Canal. Her children leapt through the water like spiraling emerald ribbons, chasing fish and laughter alike.

She turned to the Spirit of Venice — radiant in Her form of Mary Magdalene — and said:

“Let’s begin.”

That very night, seeds that had been sleeping for centuries stirred beneath the stones. A pulse moved through the Earth — subtle, but strong — as if the city herself exhaled for the first time in years. The Dragon let out a breath of warm, shimmering light. Where it touched the water, lilies rose. Not ordinary lilies — but star-lilies, old friends of the elementals.

Floating Gardens Emerged.

From forgotten foundations and broken gondolas, children began planting herbs, strawberries, lemon balm, and wild basil. These floating gardens drifted along the canals, trailing vines behind them like messages written in green. The elementals returned first as whispers — and then as tiny feet dancing on petals and glints of mischief in the morning light.

The Bees Came Back.

Not long after, the Moonbees returned. Golden and glowing faintly with lunar dust, they arrived with a mission. They nested in rooftops and ancient bell towers, where no one thought to look. They buzzed around lemon blossoms and filled the air with a new hum — not just sound, but song. A song of balance. Of pollination. Of return.

The Dragon, the Spirit, and the Bees wove together a symphony.

The Churches Changed.

People began to notice something strange and beautiful. The great churches of Venice — once towering monuments of silence — now shimmered subtly at dawn. Light streamed through their stained-glass windows in new colors — colors that had no name but felt like warmth, forgiveness, and truth. A scent of roses lingered where there were none.

In the Church built upon the Dragon’s former prison, moss began to grow in spirals around the altar. Cracks in the marble filled with flowers. A single vine grew from the floor up to the dome, spelling out a question:

“Will you tend the garden of your soul?”

The Dance Returned.

And each morning, at the hour when the sun touched the water just so, the Spirit of Venice danced once more. Not alone — but joined by children, artists, old fishermen, and seekers of light. They danced in the squares, in the gardens, and even upon the waters.

The Dragon curled above, her body like a bridge between worlds, her eyes gleaming.

“I feel it,” she said.

“Venice remembers. And she dreams again.”

Part III: The Council of Waters

It began with a whisper.

At first, no one noticed the tiny herbs growing through the cracks in the stones of Palazzo Cavalli. Nor did they question why the pigeons had begun to leave, replaced by bright green parrots nesting in old towers. But soon, the whisper turned into a murmur — and the murmur into a wave.

One morning, the Mayor of Venice awoke with tears on her cheeks. She had dreamed of the Dragon — not in fire and fury, but curled like a sleeping lion in the heart of the lagoon. The Dragon had spoken without words, showing her visions of floating gardens, children laughing in courtyards brimming with figs and fennel, and schools blooming with edible flowers.

That same day, a message arrived at her office. It had no signature, only a sketch of a leaf held by a spiral, and a single sentence:

“If we grow food where we walk, we won’t need to ship it in.”

She stood at the window, looking over the red rooftops, the ancient bell towers, the scattered boats. A heavy truth settled on her heart: Venice was beautiful, but fragile. Every piece of fruit, every leaf of lettuce, every bag of soil was brought in by boat or cart. Fossil fuels choked the city's breath. But what if that could change?

She called for a council — not of politicians alone, but of gardeners, teachers, children, elders, and artists.

The Council of Waters convened in an old theatre overlooking the canals. The Dragon perched silently atop the building, invisible to most, yet her presence undeniable. The Spirit of Venice flowed through the room like a soft wind.

At first, the debate was stiff, tangled in logistics.

“We have no land.”

“The schools are old.”

“The regulations don’t allow soil on rooftops.”

But then a teacher stood up — her hands still stained with compost from her school’s first planter box.

“My students harvest salad from the window boxes,” she said. “They eat what they grow. They care about bees. They ask me why this isn’t everywhere.”

A child stood next to her, holding a drawing of their school rooftop transformed into a lush green space, with a single sentence written in crayon:

“Can my lunch grow where I play?”

Silence fell over the room like a soft fog.

That moment cracked open something ancient in the city’s leaders. One by one, they began to imagine not just change — but rebirth.

Declarations were made:

• Every school in Venice would begin its transformation with permaculture gardens — even if it started with a single planter.
• Rooftop and canal-edge gardens would be prioritized and supported with public funding.
• Nature-based education would become part of every curriculum, aligned with the rhythms of the lagoon.
• Community food forests would be planted in forgotten squares, maintained by intergenerational groups — children, elders, and the elementals alike.
• Venice would become a beacon — not of the past alone, but of a future in harmony with Earth.

The Dragon exhaled from above, the wind swirling in joy.

The Spirit of Venice whispered through the canals:

“When a city remembers to breathe with the Earth, she becomes a sanctuary.”

And so Venice began again — not with concrete, but with compost. Not with noise, but with song. The ancient city, once weeping salt tears, now shimmered with green hope — as the Dragon, the Spirit, and the People danced into a new dawn.

The Story of the Slumbering Dragons

Long ago, before the cities rose and the spires pierced the sky, the dragons lived in harmony with the Earth. They were not monsters of fire and fury, but ancient guardians of ley lines and memory, keepers of Earth’s dreaming. Their breath whispered the codes of creation, their wings stirred the winds of transformation.

But fear came. And with fear came walls—of stone, of scripture, of silence.

Humans, forgetting the language of the land, built great temples over the dragons' nests. Cathedrals of conquest, not reverence. The heavy bells tolled above while the dragons slept below, their dreams thick with sorrow.

Iron chains forged from fear and control were driven into the soil—into bodies, into minds. And heavy metals seeped into the roots of things: the food, the blood, the breath. The Earth grew tired. The people forgot how to fly.

Yet not all was lost.

A whisper remained—carried on the backs of bees, etched into the bark of old trees, dancing in the sunlit dust between cathedral stones. A prophecy, faint but eternal: When the dancers return, the dragons shall awaken.

And now, one dances.

Bare feet kiss the earth like a lover returned. Arms rise like the morning sun. The air remembers. The ground trembles. A rhythm ancient and true spirals through the air—an offering of light.

The dancer prays without words:

Let the heavy be lifted.

Let the chains be dust.

Let the dragons rise,

not in wrath, but in radiance.

The Dragon’s Liberation

Told Through the Body, the Wind, and the Sun

It begins with breath.

One inhale, deep and ancient, drawn from the belly of the Earth.

The dancer stands at the edge of morning, where dew still kisses the grass,

and the sun—golden and kind—waits just beyond the veil.

Bare feet press into the sacred soil.

A pulse rises from below.

It is the memory of dragons stirring.

With arms lifted skyward, the dancer opens to the wind.

She becomes the breath of the world.

Every movement is a key.

Every spiral, a song lost in time.

She turns—slowly at first—calling the winds of the east.

Feathers of air kiss her skin.

The wind remembers.

She spins faster, calling the dragons by name, not with words but with feeling.

With every turn, the heavy metals—those that shackle dragons and dim humanity—begin to melt.

The toxins in our food, the poisons in our thoughts, the spells of suppression—all begin to fall away.

One by one.

The Sun joins her dance, warming her back, illuminating her face.

She becomes the axis between Earth and Sky.

The golden spiral awakens in her spine.

She prays:

For all the dragons hidden beneath cathedrals,

and those buried in the bones of the Earth—

Be free. Rise. Return to your place in the light.

For humanity, weighed down by invisible chains,

by heavy metals, by illusions of separation—

Be free. Rise. Remember who you are.

She falls into a trance of light.

A thousand ancestors dance with her.

A thousand unborn children too.

The wind wraps her like wings.

The sun pours through her like fire.

Then the Earth speaks.

The stone beneath her feet cracks open—not with violence, but with joy.

A shimmer of gold, a pulse of emerald, a sacred roar:

The dragons are awake.

Not beasts, but beings of light, long misunderstood.

They spiral from their nests in cathedrals and crypts,

rising through the spires, dissolving dogma,

not to destroy, but to bless.

They anoint the air with remembering.

They fly through human hearts,

unlocking what was locked.

And humanity begins to rise.

Not above, but into.

Into the fullness of being.

Into joy. Into breath.

Into the sacred dance of Earth and Sky.

And the dancer smiles,

for she knows:

This was the moment they came for.

This is the freedom they called in.

This is the song that sets the world alight.

RITUAL OF THE RISING DRAGONS

Solo Performance by Nomvula the Greeninglady

April 24 – An Invocation for Earth, Humanity, the Forgotten Keepers, and Venice

Setting:

At Palazzo Albrizzi-Capello at the opening of Morphos Temporary Identities organized by ItsLiquid Group, curated by Luca Curci.

 A simple circle of crystals marks the center. In the middle: Nomvula, barefoot, wrapped in soft flowing fabric—earth tones and golden greens.

A single ray of sunlight falls upon her face. The ritual begins at sunset- the golden hour.

PART I – OPENING: THE SILENT PRAYER (Duration: 3 min)

Nomvula stands still. Eyes closed. Hands gently over her heart.

She breathes deeply—slow, circular breathing—calling the four directions in her heart.

Whispered Words (softly spoken):

I stand upon the Earth, for the Earth.

I move with breath, for the breathless.

I call the dragons of light from the bones of the forgotten.

Venice, I hear you.

Humanity, I feel you.

Earth, I am you.

She slowly lowers her hands to the soil. Touches it. Kisses her fingers.

Rises.

PART II – THE WEIGHT OF FORGETTING (Duration: 5 min)

Music: Deep, slow tones, like distant bells underwater.

Her movements are heavy. Shoulders slumped. She mimics being bound, her limbs moving like they're caught in invisible chains. She picks up symbolic cloth—grey, metallic—draping it over her shoulders like a burden.

Spoken Word (as she dances):

They put metals in our food,

poisons in our veins.

They built churches on the dragon’s bones

and called them holy.

They sank us with silence.

They drowned the sky.

She slowly lowers to the ground. She places her ear to the soil.

PART III – THE EARTH REMEMBERS (Duration: 5 min)

A shift.

Wind sounds rise. Chimes. The rhythm of a heartbeat returns.

Nomvula begins to spiral on the ground. One hand reaches upward.

She lifts—vertebra by vertebra—like something ancient waking in her body.

Chanted softly, rhythmically, breathlessly:

Rise, beloveds.

Spirals in stone.

Dragons of the ley.

Your time has come.

She starts to turn. Slowly, like the tide moving in.

Fabric lifts like wings.

PART IV – THE DRAGON’S DANCE (Duration: 7 min)

Music builds—drums, elemental flutes, heartbeat,orchestra.

Nomvula spins. Arms out. She becomes the wind, the flame, the wings of the awakening.

She dances with power—each movement an offering, a key.

She throws off the grey cloth.

Her green skirt flares. She’s the Earth re-blooming.

She drops into deep squats, leaps, spins, whispers the dragon’s name into the wind:

Words woven into breath:

Venice, beloved, rise.

Waters of memory, rise.

Human hearts, rise.

Earth’s bones, rise.

PART V – LIBERATION (Duration: 5 min)

She freezes. Stillness. Silence. Breath.

Then slowly—hand over heart—she lifts her other hand to the sky.

A golden ray (or candlelight) catches her face.

Invocation (strong, clear):

For all dragons buried beneath cathedrals—

Be free.

For all humans bound by false light—

Be free.

For the waters of Venice—

Flow pure again.

For the Earth—

Dance again.

She begins a circular spin. Faster. Glowing. Free.

A sun dance. A spiral of joy.

She laughs, a sound like wind in wild trees.

PART VI – CLOSING: THE RETURN OF THE SUN (Duration: 3 min)

Music softens—flute, birdsong, a heartbeat fading into light.

Nomvula comes to stillness.

She kneels. Places her hands upon the Earth.

Her forehead touches the soil. A kiss of gratitude.

Final Blessing (whispered):

The dragons are rising.

The Earth is remembering.

Venice is listening.

We are free.

She rises one last time.

Looks toward the sun.

Opens her arms to the sky.

She holds silence. A breath. A smile. Then slowly walks out of the circle.