At the Buffet

It is brilliantly sunny here this morning, but the temperature is a balmy -31 Celsius with the wind chill factored into the equation. I have already been out to check the various feeders in the garden and have filled them all to overflowing. Birds and squirrels burn a lot of calories just trying to stay warm in this frigid weather, and the breakfast served on such days is good high grade stuff.

The village squirrels are ravenous this morning, and they are lined up one after another on our veranda railing like a procession of little gray Buddhas. As they await their turn at the breakfast buffet, their faces are full of longing and hope, and their tiny paws are tucked into their belly fur for warmth.

My companion Spencer, on the other hand, shows no enthusiasm for going anywhere in this kind of cold. He is curled up on the sofa in the den with a morose expression, gazing out at the cold world beyond the windows and grumbling expressively.

Thursday Poem - Out of Stardust Dancing

Somewhere above us in the cauldron of night,
particles of stardust perform a slow dance,
incandescent motes coming together into worlds that
are yet to be, becoming the sky and the land and the sea...

and so it was with us in the beginning —
we were myriad motes of stardust kicking up our heels
around the mother sun and dancing in the endless deeps,
we danced in our orbits, and we became.

When you look up into the night, breathe deeply
and remember your beginnings — once you were
dancing stardust, and though you have come to rest now
on this good dark earth, you are still a child of light.

Catherine Kerr

Wordless Wednesday - Gone Forth

A Parfait Gentle Knight

Redpolls

They were Saturday's surprise visitors, two common redpolls who visited (very briefly) the biggest of the feeders along the trail into the deep woods.

Alas, the two delicate passerines did not stay for more than a minute or so - they were intimidated by the vast numbers of chickadees and nuthatches swooping in and out of the feeding stations, and by three red squirrels chattering from pine perches overhead. There was little nor no wind at the time, but the feeders were describing wide arcs as they swung back and forth in all the avian "toing and froing", and the pines themselves were swaying as the squirrels danced about in their topmost branches.

Redpolls in flocks are not easily intimidated by other species and tend to hold their ground, so I am assuming that the timidity of this pair was due to the absence of their friends at the woodland banquet.

Blue Revelation

Although it is still very cold in the north, the streams of field and woodland are beginning to melt here and there, and wherever the icy waters meet the air, they reflect the sky - a brilliant intense blue on some days and muted pearly gray on others.

On sunny days, the edges of the rural landscape are as sharp and perfectly honed as the fruits of a bladesmith's labor. On bleaker days, the world is smudged as if with charcoal, or inkstone and bamboo brush. The deep hue of the waters, their gurgle and flow, are balm to eyes too long without color, music to a winter weary psyche.

There is a lesson here for me if I can find the wits to figure it out. I must not cultivate bindweed mind and huddle within - I must turn outward, open my eyes, my ears and my arms to embrace this perfect little blue world, just as it is.

What is wrong with me? Why do I have keep reminding myself of this, over and over again, day in and day out, all this lifetime long?

Wild Visitations

Wild visitors to the eastern field on a damp gray day in February when the north wind was rampaging across the Two Hundred Acre Wood and the air was full of blowing snow.

These are not (to put it mildly) good images, and I apologize for them, but when the wild turkeys come to call, the occasion has to be marked. In spite of the weather and my lingering pneumonia, I made a mad dash for parka, boots, spectacles and camera.

I adore these magnificent birds with their iridescent black and bronze plumage, their self-assurance and their regal deportment. They haunt the old beech, oak and hickory groves all year long, and they strut about as if they owned the forest. They build their nests wherever they please and raise their madcap wayward children in sunlit clearings a mile or so back from our main gate. In springtime, there are always three or four nests in the woods, and at twilight on warm autumn evenings, one can hear turkey clans clucking and gobbling and purring to each other beyond the hill. The conversations are cordial, companionable and contented.

Seeing turkeys on a winter day is a fine and uplifting thing.

Friday Ramble - Treading the Gate

She comes out of the deep blue sky before sunrise like a promise and a blessing, this perfect scrap of luminous waning moon. Watching Her rise through the trees, I lean against the counter by the kitchen window with a mug of tea in hand, and I remember. I remember, and in remembering I am renewed.

Putting on my hiking boots and picking up my trusty blackthorn walking stick once more, off I go in the early light, treading the gate and the winding trail beyond, sensing an adventure somewhere up ahead and around the bend. Perhaps I have been here all along. Perhaps I never left the path at all...

Approach the gate as a pilgrim, a seeker,
wear sturdy boots for walking,
go cloaked and hooded against the wind,
blackthorn staff and lantern in hand,
an abundance of candles in your pack
for the long journey ahead.

Bring gifts and offerings for those who
dwell beyond the ancient gate, bundles
of sage, clear water, kindling, earth and salt,
bring flasks of tea, incense and bread,
bring tales and laughter to share around the fire
with those you will meet along the way.

Travel lightly and make your journey by the moon,
taking the owls, true kindred, as your
fierce and tender companions, feel
their breath along your own wings, share
their dark and watchful wisdom as you flow.

Let the song you sing as you are questing
be your own sweet music, and the stories
you spin by the fire in the nights ahead
be the narratives of your own wild and shining life,
this journey you are making into an unknown land.

Listen to the night and be content, for you are not alone —
around you is a vast and singing throng,
the very stars are singing with you as you go.

Cate Kerr

Wordless Wednesday - Fragile

Givers of Thanks

The various nuthatches and woodpeckers continue to be somewhat shy and aloof, although they come a little closer each visit. There were throngs of chickadees about this weekend though, and they were in sociable mode, sitting on my shoulders, hat and parka hood, chirping their thanks right into my ears as I filled their feeders along the trail into the woods.

Overhead, the ravens were indulging in aerial manoeuvres, and enthralled by the blue skies and the sunlight, they were burbling away at the tops of their lungs as they performed their high altitude dives and spirals. Why is a collection of ravens called an unkindness when they are such cheery and exuberant birds, such tricksters?

My pneumonia lingers, and I should not have been out in the woods at all, but I so needed to go, and I did. To remain indoors would have been a travesty.

Flowing

Can you see the real me? She is somewhere here in this image of clear icy flowing water with its reflected blue sky, and she is smiling.

All it takes is the caress of Helios on one's shoulders and a little wild alchemy, a few hours when the temperatures are in the low minuses for a change rather than the abysmal minuses, a huddle of old sun kissed stones on a Lanark hill somewhere beyond the wind.

One morning you go out to the woods in February, and you hear the sound of water flowing merrily nearby. The sound tugs at you, and you follow it; you find the hidden hillside with its dancing rivulet sparkling under the blue sky, and you just sit there on a rock in the sunshine watching the water coo and flow. You could not, you simply could not - be happier than you are in this moment and place. Mindful, at peace and completely dissolved into hillside and stream before your eyes, you could sit there forever.

The Valentine Visitors

A perfect day in the woods yesterday, sunny, cold and brilliantly blue of sky. The deep snow was diamond hard, and one could walk on it without sinking in three feet, the trees sparkling in the light, and the ravens calling to one another overhead. It was the very finest kind of Valentines Day to have, and we enjoyed it wholeheartedly.

Spencer was absolutely delighted to be able to run, and run he did, for miles and miles through the woods, his tail wagging furiously, his ears in their happy position, his tongue hanging out and a big grin on his handsome face.

There was a high wind on the main trail into the woods, but throngs of chickadees were in residence at the feeders, and nuthatches were cruising in and out at high speed. On one side of the madly swinging feeder in the dazzling sunlight was a delicate Red-breasted Nuthatch (Sitta canadensis), and on the other side of the feeder in the shade, a larger White-breasted Nuthatch (Sitta carolinensis). He (or she) was brooking no interference from the multitudinous chickadees and wading into the banquet with beak and talons poised for defensive action.

Perfect, absolutely perfect, all of it, and it's amazing what a little sunlight can do for body and spirit...

Valentines Day

Friday Ramble - A Patient Choir

The word for this morning is "patience", and it is a good word for this time of the year, part way through a deep cold snowy winter, beset with cabin fever and dreaming of springtime.

At this time of year, snowy fields in the highlands stretch away into the distance like a desert, smooth and white and sinuous in their flowing curves. At the horizon, they reach upward and merge seamlessly with the pale winter sky and drifting clouds which hold the promise of more snow to come. There is perfect trust in this meeting of snow and earth and sky, and I watch from a sheltered place along the fence, my breath forming clouds when it meets the subzero air of the day.

Pottering in the woods is a difficult exercise in February when the snow is deep - there have been so many days this winter when I could not get out to the woods because of health issues and blizzard conditions. There have also been a few fine adventures when I did make it out to the woods, left the trail and suddenly found myself in snow up to my waist and floundering about in snowshoes and heavy winter gear. The logistics of extracting one's self from such a situation are complex, and an almost balletic agility is required. It pleases me no end that I can usually (but not always) find my way out of such predicaments alone and with a minimum of fussing, cussing and contorting myself.

What I need to do on stormy days when wooded rambles cannot be undertaken is to cultivate patience and forbearance. I must be of good cheer and rest easy in the sure knowledge that the universe is unfolding just as it should, that there is indeed a springtime somewhere up ahead. I have to keep reminding myself of that every day, and in so striving, I would be wise to emulate the cardinals who visit my winter garden. Clinging to a branch in the high wind, this one sang like a praising bard to the rising sun, and his pleasure in the light this morning was wonderful to see.

Thursday Poem - Clearing

I am clearing a space
here, where the trees stand back.
I am making a circle so open
the moon will fall in love
and stroke these grasses with her silver.
I am setting stones in the four directions,
stones that have called my name,
from mountaintops and riverbeds, canyons and mesas
Here, I will stand with my hands empty,
mind gaping at the moon.
I know there is another way to live.
When I find it, the angels
will cry out in rapture,
each cell of my body
will be a rose, a star.
If something seized my life tonight,
if a sudden wind swept through me,
changing everything,
I would not resist.
I am ready for whatever comes.
But I think it will be
something small, an animal
padding out of the shadows,
or a word spoken so softly
I hear it inside.
It is dark out here, and cold.
The moon is stone.
I am alone with my longing.
Nothing is happening
but the next breath, and the next.

Morgan Farley

Wordless Wednesday - Tiny Worlds Within

Twenty Five Things

Sisters Kim and Joanna tagged me on this a while ago, and here it is at last. Sorry it took a few days to work out... What on earth does one say about one's own self anyway?

1. On our first date many years ago, my soulmate and I spent most of the evening talking about art and literature, and somehow or other I landed up reciting almost the whole of Omar Khayyam's Rubaiyat to him - for the simple reason that he didn't believe I knew it, let alone knew the whole thing. I can still recite it from memory along with vast chunks of Yeats, Rumi, Hafiz, Basho, Rilke, Neruda, David Whyte, Mary Oliver, Gary Snyder and Wendell Berry.

2. I learned to read before reaching the dizzy age of four and have had my nose firmly planted in a book ever since.

3. I could cheerfully part with my whole wardrobe and probably the family silver, but never my library or my camera equipment.

4. The little blue house in the village does have a television set, but I can't remember the last time I turned it on.

5. I come alive when I pick up my camera, a paintbrush or a good book.

6. Owning a book shop/art gallery would be a dream come true and a truly celestial experience, but I am not sure I would ever be able to part with a single thing.

7. I adore hats, but I look perfectly dreadful in most hats.

8. There is a slight bend in my nose which isn't noticeable because of all the freckles on it. As a youngster, I broke the poor sniffer several times, and it now lists permanently to port. Nobody seems to notice, and I don't usually volunteer the information.

9. My preferred items of footwear (on the rare occasions when I cop out and wear shoes these days) are my purple lace-up Doc Martens. I feel like Xena in those boots, invincible and as though I can do just about anything, but I don’t have a helmet, sword or breastplate to go with the boots.

10. My favorite color is ultra-violet, and one of these fine days, I shall tint my silvery hair that very same color to match my favorite old Doc Martens (if the Docs hold out for another year or two).

11. I am indifferent to potatoes, but I simply couldn’t live without rice. There is always a large bowl of brown rice in my refrigerator, and my favorite kitchen gadgets are my wok, rice cooker and Le Creuset pots. Throw a handful of sauteed greens, tofu, peppers, shitaki mushrooms and umeboshi (or whatever else is available) into the rice, and hey presto, one has the perfect serendipity repast.

12. The comfort food of choice is pumpernickel (real honest no-yeast wheat-free pumpernickel) toast with butter and buckwheat honey, preferably consumed with a good pot of tea - Earl Grey or a fine malty Assam will do nicely. If there is no buckwheat honey in the pantry, I substitute my own wild elderberry jam.

13. Did I mention that I love tea, all kinds of tea? I have a whole cupboard of it, all kinds of it from Arctic Crowberry and Cloudberry to Lapsang, Darjeeling and Ceylon.

14. I just say "no" to white bread, white rice and wheat pasta whenever I encounter them and can't remember the last time I ate the wretched stuff.

15. Up to the present moment, I have been adopted by three clans in the Lanark Highlands: Raven, Heron and Wolf and can speak the three languages reasonably well - I have been known to sing along with the wolves in Lanark after dark, trade jokes with the ravens on fine summer mornings and converse with herons along the lake at sunset.

16. There are four places on this earth I should like very much to visit before I shuffle off this mortal coil, the Himalayas, China, Japan and (for some strange reason) Iceland, and I plan to make it to all four places in the next year or two.

17. I've already journeyed to Baffin Island and absolutely adored the untrammeled rocky wildness of that far northern place. The Arctic calls to me in the voice of the sirens, and one of these days, I shall have to go back there.

18. I can travel like the wind on snowshoes, and it is a good thing that I can. Winters here are long and cold and very snowy.

19. When younger, I wanted to own a working mill and came very close to actually doing it. I still have vivid dreams of mill wheels turning, of sitting by mill ponds stocked with trout and visiting quiet channels graced by herons on warm summer nights. The dream remains, and who knows? It may still come true. If it happens, I shall acquire a good cello and sit by down the water, playing Mozart for the trout and the herons and the ducks.

20. In my next life, I would like to be a mermaid or a dryad.

21. Having been quiet, introspective, freckled and rather easy going all my life (and about as intimidating as the Easter bunny), I secretly aspire to become a commanding presence in my elder years, someone who is wise, compelling and a little scary.

22. Deep inside this plain boring old hen is someone or something extraordinary - a wild adventuress longing to get out, book passage on a tramp steamer and go traveling around the world.

23. I am truly and incredibly passionate about this magnificent little blue planet we live on and about healing it. The myriad beauties of this magical earth bring me to my knees every time, and the wonder of it all sustains me.

24. When younger, I assumed that I would be a wise entity by this ripe old age, but as I move further along this meandering journey, I am realizing that I don't know anything, not a single darned thing, and that makes me laugh. Becoming wise or enlightened is an undertaking for many lifetimes, and several more will probably have come and gone before I have learned anything at all, however small and insignificant.

25. I shall be content, if in this lifetime I have managed to cultivate even a small scrap of mindfulness and compassion.

Himself

Spencer in the sunshine, just inside the doors out to the deck.

It's his favorite resting place on cold sunny days at the turning of the year. Our son has reached his proper impressive stature, weight and muscle mass, and he is slowly losing his anxious expression. He has a sweet loving disposition, and he has (in the words of Dr. Greg), "the heart of a great athlete and a courageous warrior".

At Ease

Friday Ramble - Forbearing

On a fine cold Friday morning, a view down and across the misty valley of the Clyde river in the Lanark highlands. Cassie and I walked among these pine clad coves and hills and valleys together for years, and there was something astonishing for us to witness every single time we went: an owl with golden gimlet eyes peering at us from the shadows, a flock of grazing wild turkeys at dawn, a hidden grove of gently nodding wildflowers. This year, it is Spencer and I who are walking here together, at least physically. My darling Cassie traveled beyond the fields we know late last summer, but she dances along beside us in spirit, for she has always loved this place.

In springtime, there are wild pink and yellow orchids blooming under the trees here, bloodroot, early lilies, trilliums and columbines on the sunlit hills; choirs of songbirds in summer, endless groves of fiery maples and golden oaks in autumn, groves of fragrant green-blue pines and spruces in winter. Winter has its own windswept wonders, but it is sometimes difficult to partake of them - the snow is often too deep for easy walking on such treacherous terrain, even on snowshoes. Spencer and I stand looking out over the hills together, and we dream of making tracks across the pristine waves and billows and rolling snow dunes in the distance.

What can one do when she is unable to traverse the winter splendors of her chosen place, the forest of her heart? She cultivates forbearance, and she remembers. She thinks of other magical times spent in these wild places and the dear companions who were with her - she gives thanks for the great privilege of having known and loved them. One of these days perhaps, my gratitude for having known and loved those who have already traveled on ahead will conquer the pain of losing them. I cultivate forbearance, and I wait patiently for that to happen, knowing beyond the shadow of any doubt that I shall walk these hallowed hills forever, and that my beloved companions will be walking with me.

The word forbear comes from the Middle English forberen, thence from the Old English forberan, both meaning to endure or to get through something, and to do so with grace and dignity. When we cultivate forbearance, we are exercising tolerance, patience, charity and restraint in adverse circumstances and times of provocation — we are treating our companions on this circular earthly journey (and ourselves too) with mindfulness, compassion, respect and forgiveness.

Forbearance and stoic endurance are imperative here, for we have been gifted with more snow and bitterly cold weather this winter than we have had in years, and there is still more to come. I am working on being forbearing - I am also assessing my stash of tea, counting the days until springtime and clinging to the thought that a good blizzard is a beautiful thing.

Thursday Poem - Invocation to the Guardian

You who were with me before I was born,
dark shining on dark,
be with me now.
You who will stay with me after I die,
light traveling on light,
be with me now.

You who are nameless
in the marketplace of ten thousand things,
how shall I call you?
You who are invisible between the stars,
how shall I see you?

You who nurture me with silent wisdom,
speak to me now.
I am listening beyond the sounds of night,
I am looking beyond the sights of the day.
You who fill the infinite void,
travel small on my shoulder now,
show me the way.

Dolores Stewart
Invocation to the Guardian from Doors to the Universe
(reprinted with permission)

This exquisite volume of poetry was recently published by Bellowing Ark Press, and every lyrical word within its pages is magical and transforming.

Wordless Wednesday - Window

Frosted Notions

The world is blue and frosted and sparkling, but after three months of looking at snow and ice, one craves something else entirely.

It is at precisely this time every year, that I seem to turn inward and away from the world beyond the windows, toward books and tea and photo archives and music and fewer words. It's an insular thing, but in a good way. The psyche has an opportunity to rest, recharge the old batteries, replenish inner directives and marshal the enthusiasms necessary to get through at least six (sigh) more weeks of winter.

I had a happy thought this morning as I looked at the gracefully arched and artfully frosted branches peeking out of the snow drifts here and there in the garden. In only a week or two, owls will be nesting in the Lanark Highlands, and the maple syrup season will (hopefully) be in full swing. I close my eyes, and I can see clouds of white smoke billowing out of the sugar shacks - I can hear owls calling in the woods. The images are powerful and healing "stuff" indeed. It will be only a few weeks until I am once again in the companionship of the wild owls, and that makes me happy all over.

Alight

At nightfall on the eve of Imbolc or Candlemas, there was silence and darkness, then the old handcrafted chandelier with its pressed flowers, weeds and milk glass shining down on the oak table, through the windows and out into the street. Then candles were lighted, one, two, three, and another and another...

The house was filled with the scent of honey beeswax, with soft golden glow and warmth, with the feeling that something magical, peaceful and utterly timeless was taking place.

Sometimes, just sometimes, the best magics are the simple ones. Earthy, natural and rooted are they, but dazzling in their shape and color and clarity and perfume.

Blessings of the Light

Blessings of the light this day,
Happy Imbolc!