Beyond the Fields We Know

Friday Ramble - Temenos

2012-01-27T07:04:00.000-05:00

This week's word is temenos, coming to us from the Greek verb τέμνω, meaning "to cut". The earliest known form of the word occurs in the Mycenaean Greek te-me-no, written in Linear B syllabic script, and it signifies an area of earth or ground forbidden to mundane uses and dedicated to the sacred. The temenos was an important feature of the mythological landscape in early times, at times a shrine, temple or a sanctuary structure made by human hands, but most often an open air enclosure or sacred grove.

Such places abounded in ancient European cultures, and they can be found all around the Mediterranean: the Hellenic Dodonna, Delphi and Eleusis, Knossos (Crete), the Acropolis, Mount Olympus and the Sacred Valley of the Nile in Egypt (to name just a few). One of the most famous of all is the Italian Nemi (nemus Aricinum, or "grove of Ariccia"), an ancient grove of olive trees sacred to the goddess Diana Nemorensis (Diana of the Wood) and the focus of Sir James Frazer's Golden Bough.

There is something about a ring of trees which seems to draw humanity like a magnet. Early Norse cultures had their hörgr, and the ancient Celts had their own open air sacred places called nemetons after the Celtic Nemetes tribe of the Upper Rhine and their tutelary goddess, Nemetona. Nemeton, Nemetes and Nemetona are all rooted in the Celtic nemeto, meaning "of sacred places".

Living in touch with the earth and its timeless seasonal rhythms, one can't help but reflect that the whole earth and everything on it is sacred space, and a quotation from Awakening to the Sacred by Surya Das comes to mind. "Truth is the perfect circle. Its center is everywhere; its circumference stretches into infinite space. The land on which we stand is sacred, no matter where we stand." In other words, wherever we happen to be standing is consecrated ground.

Everyone needs special places, and this is one of mine at any time of year. Far from the hills in winter and craving stillness, this is the image that comes to mind, a rock resting in a lavishly treed and sheltered highland hollow where harsh winds never seem to blow.

In winter the hollow is deep blue and very restful, and so still that one can hear snow falling and coming to rest in the trees nearby. In springtime and summer the place is green and shaded, all flickering leaf light, mosses, ferns and wildflowers. I can sit comfortably for hours with my back against the stone, watching the dance of light and shadow in the peaceful secluded alcove. The flavor and fragrance of the experience are described perfectly in a gorgeous excerpt from Directions by Billy Collins.

Time spent by the stone is kairos time rather than sequential time, and it's always time well spent. Much as I long for springtime in late January, I cherish intervals here - even when icy north winds blow as they are blowing this morning.

Thursday Poem - January

2012-01-26T06:56:00.000-05:00

Dusk and snow this hour
in argument have settled
nothing. Light persists,
and darkness. If a star
shines now, that shine is
swallowed and given back
doubled, grounded bright.
The timid angels flailed
by passing children lift
in a whitening wind
toward night. What plays
beyond the window plays
as water might, all parts
making cold digress.
Beneath iced bush and eave,
the small banked fires of birds
at rest lend absences
to seeming absence. Truth
is, nothing at all is missing.
Wind hisses and one shadow
sways where a window's lampglow
has added something. The rest
is dark and light together tolled
against the boundary-riven
houses. Against our lives,
the stunning wholeness of the world.

Betty Adcock from Intervale

Wordless Wednesday - Watchers on the Hill

2012-01-25T07:47:00.000-05:00

By the Frozen River

2012-01-24T07:07:00.001-05:00

On a winter day, the north wind brushes snow away from the ice on the river, and the displaced flakes whirl through the air like confetti, like autumn mist or spring's floating fog. There is something in the process that is uplifting for this mere human in January, and even the frosty rimed reeds on the edge with their artfully curling tops are eloquent of something wild and alluring.

Pleasing beyond words are the russet spikes outlined against the bright blue sky, white of the fields and trees on the farther shore. We call the spikey creatures bullrushes, or reedmace, cattail, catninetail, punks, or corndog grass, tucking them into floral arrangements, weaving them into baskets, pounding their rhizomes into flour, or sometimes (as I am here) just watching them sway in the wind. Members of the typha family are pleasing in so many ways, but most of all standing tall in their native place.

In January, there are no caroling birds by the river, and there is silence here for the most part, but for a few moments this past week, I could hear the river singing in its exuberant springtime descent and I smiled, thinking of Vladimir Nabokov's memoir "Speak Memory". On another day, that might have been a good title for this post written in the depths of winter.

Gold in Morning's Cup

2012-01-23T06:19:00.001-05:00

Morning's Radiant Window

2012-01-22T08:10:00.004-05:00

"In our life there is a single color, as on an artist's palette, which provides the meaning of life and art. It is the color of love."
Marc Chagall

The morning light comes slowly on these late January days, beginning with a diffused blush on the horizon, then a deep magenta sky and rosy clouds high over the trees, flamboyant coppery gold dancing through everything, a burnished glow flowing like honey over the village. Trees, chimneys and snowy rooflines are silhouetted against the early radiance, and they contribute their own rooted glow to the day that is just coming into being.

These are my "stained glass hours", and they have illustrious crafted kindred; the rose window of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, the vibrant panels of Edward Burne-Jones and William Morris, the work of Louis Comfort Tiffany. Then there are the magnificent creations of Marc Chagall: his paintings of the biblical Song of Songs, the windows (especially the Reuben window) depicting the Twelve Tribes of Israel he designed for the synagogue of Jerusalem's Hadassah Medical Centre, the commemorative windows he created as a memorial for young Sarah d'Avigdor-Goldsmith (also spelled Goldsmid) in tiny All Saints Church, Tudeley, Kent.

Compelled for some reason to be up and about before the light show starts, off I go to find a seat by the window and partake of the abundance. I bring a mug of tea, a heavy shawl and the camera. Chagall often seemed to be seeing the beauty of the earth through stained glass, and wrapped up in morning's exquisite colours, I seem to be doing the same thing. Mother Nature and Chagall are true artists though - I am just a doddering observer, training my lens on the high perfect light of morning and floundering for words to describe it.

Life Within

2012-01-21T07:53:00.000-05:00

Friday Ramble - Village of Glass

2012-01-20T08:15:00.003-05:00

Just when it seems that one cannot tolerate another dull January day, along comes a poignantly brief interval of brilliant blue skies, high wispy clouds and fluffy mounded snowdrifts.

The village, which only a day or so ago was a greyscale study executed in deep liminal twilight, is blown glass from here to there, its myriad outdoor elements tinkling like a thousand and one madcap cymbals, each keeping its own rhythm and time.

There is ice everywhere: glossing roofs, vehicles and trees, coating the cobblestones on the front walk, dangling from the eaves of the house in sculptural shapes and dazzling the eyes whenever the sun alights on them.

There are other things one ought to be doing, but she stands freezing on the deck with a very long lens on her camera and snaps pictures of the great trees on the hill dancing in the north wind. Then off comes the telephoto lens, and on goes a 100mm macro - for some reason the windbells below the rafters and their attendant sparkling icicles engage her attention. In January, light is everything, and how that light captures one heart in early morning.

The day is cold, the north wind is approaching gale force and walking is treacherous, but the word for days like this one just has to be “joy”.

Thursday Poem - The Snow Man

2012-01-19T07:01:00.001-05:00

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Wallace Stevens, from Harmonium

Wordless Wednesday - Waiting

2012-01-18T05:50:00.003-05:00

Quarrtsiluni Days

2012-01-17T07:39:00.001-05:00

Somewhere to the south, wild orchids may be raising their heads, there may be fields of grazing geese and sunny lagoons of silently floating loons, but not here and not for some long time to come. We were a little late getting started on the long white season this time around, but winter is in full deep snowy swing, and with the wind chill factored into the equation, Fahrenheit and Celsius are of equal height and breadth and are dancing along through the drifting white, hand in hand.

There is an Inuit expression for what we find ourselves doing in January. Qarrtsiluni is an Inupiaq word meaning "sitting together in darkness" or "sitting in the darkness waiting for something to burst forth". In the original sense, the expression has to do with creativity, describing a benighted interval when one is just sitting about waiting for an image, an idea or an inspiration to come hurtling out of nowhere. I've always loved the concept, and if there had not already been a fine online literary journal called Qarrtsiluni, that is what this blog would have been named. Just turf out the part about creativity, and that is where we are at the moment, sitting around in the darkness and the cold, waiting for something to happen.

There are wonders here and there though, deep crisp snow crunching nicely under one's skiis or snowshoes, frosting on the trees, long blue shadows falling across the trail into the woods. A season which is capable of creating such wonders surely merits more respect and appreciation than I grant it at this time of the year. My insular, crotchety and rather taciturn winter crone self sometimes balks at the idea though. Now and then, she hunches over her tea and harbors mutinous thoughts. Strangely enough (but then she is rather strange), the cure for such things is a trip into the woods.

The Color of Winter

2012-01-16T07:07:00.000-05:00

Chrysanthemums and redemption

2012-01-15T07:25:00.001-05:00

The world beyond the windows is white, skies cloudy, and the village merely a collection of indistinct shapes and muffled sounds. Snow is falling thick and fast, and the day is cold and damp, the kitchen a shadowy realm in early morning light. My doddering bones and aching joints protest such weather, and summer seems like a lovely dream from long ago and very far away.

How does one banish winter, even for a few minutes? In search of a fine hot potion to start the day and drown my doldrums, I rattle around in the larder, opening canister after canister and sniffing them appreciatively. French roast? Maxwell House? Earl Grey? Constant Comment? Northern Delights Cloudberry (Arpiqutik) or Crowberry (Paurngaqutik)? Rooibos? Ginseng? Lapsang Souchong? Perhaps plain old Orange Pekoe?

The last container is way in the back of the cupboard and rustles pleasantly, for it holds dried chrysanthemum buds. When I open it, the dry golden fragrance of last summer wafts out, and for a moment, I seem to hear tinkling bells and exotic musics. Ah, here is the tisane (liang cha or 凉茶) we will quaff this morning.

Waiting for the battered kettle to whistle scant minutes later, I find myself doing a little whistling of my own and glancing at the long shadows falling across the little Chinese bowl of chrysanthemum buds and my favorite mug on the counter. The shadows are fetching things and they contrast wonderfully with the fragile porcelain. Forget the staging and fancy lighting, this morning scene is perfect just as it is. Tea anyone?

Snow People

2012-01-14T08:03:00.000-05:00

Friday Ramble - Rhapsody in Blue

2012-01-13T08:20:00.000-05:00

The Winter Solstice came and went, and light is slowly returning to the world. Days are already growing longer, but the effects of December's turning are felt in their own good time, and it will be some time before we sense real change in the length of our days and nights and notice a great difference in our native landscape.

January is the coldest month here in the north, a time of deep snow and penetrating icy cold. It's tempting to remain indoors and just curl up by the fire with tea and books every day, but we need long woodland rambles in Lanark - snowy ambles nourish and sustain us, and we are still taking them, even on the coldest days in winter.

"Crunch, crunch, crunch" went the snowshoes yesterday as we made our slow meandering way through the woods. It could be our imagination, but the snow seemed brighter and more brilliant than on potterings just a few days ago. During the precious moments when there was sunlight, the fields glittered from here to there, and we felt as rich as old Croesus - as though every jeweler's vault on the planet had been harvested and spilled out at our feet.

Even the shadows in the countryside seem to be changing, and there was a subtle shifting in the shady hollows, movement typical of the season and very welcome to winter weary wanderers. Shadows were less attenuated, and at same time, they seemed deeper, more intense, more blue. Here and there, a sprig of green emerged from the azure snows, and the color was a hopeful thing, one that not even the biting north wind could carry away in its gelid paws.

Thursday Poem - January First

2012-01-12T07:29:00.000-05:00

It seems a shame to throw out that old year,
that had so many birthdays in it,
parties and vacations, fixings
of the body and the house, all finished
and no longer to be worried,

and now to pin up these new wolves and dogs and moons
blank squares and unmarked days.
A sleeping new year wakes, lumbers out of darkness,
hungry to consume us
bite by bite at each appointed hour.

There should be maps to guide us through
the wilderness ahead, survival tips and even prayers.
But cloudy gates of heaven close us out
from that eternal view
and leave us with the ticks and nicks of time.

At least, I’ll make a money soup
and let the rich aroma of lentils, garlic, oil
fill our empty bellies with its comfort.
At least, I’ll write some letters to the far ends,
call a friend who’s been where I have been,
and laughs about it,

then settle in behind my usual wall
of rough and solid words.
I love most the days of nothing
nipping at my heels with obligations.
How many will there be?

Dolores Stewart Riccio
(with the poet's kind permission)

Wordless Wednesday - The Joy of Books

2012-01-11T06:31:00.015-05:00

January's Wolf Moon

2012-01-10T07:34:00.013-05:00

January's moon seen above the evergreens on the hill is a thing of beauty, but it is a chill beauty that sings of ice, deep snow, wind and hunger in the wilds. A few months ago, I photographed waves of departing geese silhouetted against the rising moon, and although the great birds are long gone, their parting songs remained with me last evening.

We stoke up our fireplaces and wood stoves. We stay close by our hearths in the long nights. We brew endless pots of tea and countless cauldrons of soup, counting the sticks of firewood piled in our summer kitchens and along our verandas, silently calculating how long the supply of firewood will hold out this year. We wrap up in every warm garment we possess and take toboggan loads of food out into the forest for the birds and the red squirrels and the deer. We look for the first signs that daylight hours are increasing, and we measure the length of the long blue shadows along the trail into the woods.

Before nightfall last evening, our eastern timber wolves raised their voices in song, and the coyotes on the other side of the Two Hundred Wood sang a magnificent harmony, the two wild and elemental choruses rising and falling like waves across the snow. It was icy cold, and as I waited for Lady Moon to appear, I remembered that in several weeks, the Great Horned Owls will be nesting in our woods again. A few weeks after that, the maple syrup season will (hopefully) be starting in the Lanark Highlands.

We also know this moon as the: After Yule Moon, Big Cold Moon, Buckeyes Ripe Moon, Carnation Moon, Center Moon, Ceremonial Initiate Moon, Cold Moon, Cooking Moon, Turning Moon, Earth Renewal Moon, First Moon, Frost in the Tepee Moon, Frozen Ground Moon, Great Moon, Great Spirit Moon, Greetings Maker Moon, Her Cold Moon, Hibiscus Moon, Holiday Moon, Ice Moon, Lakes Frozen Moon, Little Winter Moon, Long Moon, Man Moon, Midwinter Moon, Moon After Yule, Moon of Darkness, Moon of Flying Ants, Moon of Life at It's Height, Moon of Strong Cold, Moon of the Bear, Moon of the Child, Moon of Whirling Snow, Moon When Animals Lose Their Fat, Moon When Limbs of Trees Are Broken by Snow, Moon When Snow Drifts into Tipis, Moon When the Snow Blows like Spirits in the Wind, Moon When the Sun Has Traveled South, Moon When the Old Fellow Spreads the Brush , Moon When Wolves Run Together, Ninene Moon, No Snow in Trails Moon, Old Moon, Pine Moon, Plum Blossom Moon, Quiet Moon, Rivros Moon, Rowan Moon, Severe Moon, Snow Blindness Moon, Snow Moon, Snow Thaws Moon, Snowdrop Moon, Snowy Path Moon, Strong Cold Moon, Sun Has Not Strength to Thaw Moon, Thumb Moon, Trail Squint Moon, Two Trails Moon, Weight Loss Moon, Whirling Wind Moon, White Waking Moon, Winter Moon, Winter's Younger Brother Moon, Wolf Moon

As an admirer of wolves, I like the name "Wolf Moon", but I am also fond of "Great Spirit Moon" and "Earth Renewal Moon".

Trees and Dancing Stars

2012-01-09T08:01:00.000-05:00

Sun and Hills and Blowing Snow

2012-01-08T09:21:00.001-05:00

What an unexpected gift it can be, a bitterly cold and diamond bright day with the sun shining through the snow blowing across the hills and through the whiskery trees on the ridge.

One stands out of the wind whispering descriptive words like a mantra, and they confer a blessing, a sense of comfort and balance on an icy day in January: winter, sunshine, very cold, hills and trees and blowing snow.

Never mind that one's hood is pulled up, that she is wrapped to keep the cold at bay and deflect the wind, looking like a yeti out among the shifting drifts of white stuff.

The mere suggestion of light on a winter morning is a fine thing, and if one stands out here long enough, she might truly embrace the poignant stillness that Wallace Stevens called "the mind of snow". She has, however, a very long way to go.

Winter's Hand Held Out in Greeting

2012-01-07T07:35:00.004-05:00

Friday Ramble - Flaky

2012-01-06T08:24:00.002-05:00

One has to expect such things in January... The last few days have gifted us with storms that put in their appearance with little or no warning. The skies at sunrise are clear and blue and seem to go on forever - then along comes the rolling gray, and the air is filled with tumbling clouds of white. I've written of these winter days before and often too - the intervals when a winter storm appears out of nowhere and the world in the gorge and by the lake is so quiet one can hear the snow flakes falling among the trees and coming to rest on the spruces.

When asked why I live where I do, I always mention the beauty of northern autumns, but I should be talking about these magnificent astonishing winters. Every single one is a marvel, and lost among the flakes is a good place to be.

Of the fact that I arose early this morning, looked out the window at the storm and fumed silently, we shall make only the barest mention. It was not the falling snow that made me morose for a few moments, it was the absence of light - in early January, one will do almost anything for a little light.

The cure for fleeting intervals of peevishness and gloom is simple - get out the winter gear, make a flask of hot tea, grab the camera and head off to the gorge above Dalhousie Lake. The road to the lake is treacherous, but strange to relate, it is balm to a winter weary spirit and well worth the arduous journey.

The guardian trees are manitous who stand looking across the frozen lake in their robes of white, and one can see nothing of the farther shore - sometimes being here feels like standing in the high Himalayas. The north wind speaks volumes as it makes its way down the deep corridor of old stone. Joints protesting, I bend to look at the snow on the spruces below the cliff, and every crystal is a sea of light. I catch a snowflake on my tongue, and it tastes like champagne. Who was that flaky female mourning the absence of light a few hours ago? The English language could use a few more words for such wonders as January snow.

Thursday Poem - To the Rising Sun

2012-01-05T07:30:00.000-05:00

at sunrise on winter days

my trail is through newly fallen snow,

every footfall a waxing moon

muffled footsteps rising

through snow-drowned spruces,

heart beating along in time

goldenrod and milkweed,

great spruces weighted under snow,

all nod in early greeting

ghost choirs of summer grosbeaks

sing above my head, icicles forming

along rooflines as I pass by

winter rounds the village out,

smoothing the contours of house and street,

spinning deserts out of snow

in this morning softness, I know myself

at last — perfect, still and so complete

nothing abandoned or left behind

kerrdelune

Wordless Wednesday - Winter Sunrise

2012-01-04T07:48:00.000-05:00

Years Old and New

2012-01-03T08:38:00.001-05:00

What can one say about a whole calendar year, about all the water that passed singing or muttering under the bridge and is now somewhere else entirely? Spring arrived right on schedule, and the world was green again; summer was golden, and autumn was fiery red. All three seasons were glorious but brief, as they always are here in the north. Now we stand at the gate of another year, and in the depths of winter.

This year two dearly loved friends journeyed beyond these earthly fields. They were wise and wild, and their passing leaves an aching void with a cold hollow wind blowing through it, but I am grateful for having known and cherished them and hopeful that, in the words of Rita Mae Brown, "gratitude will finally conquer the loss".

The journey as a freelance photographer, designer and occasional wordsmith continues. It winds gently along through wondrous, unknown and ever changing territory, albeit in an occasionally uncertain (re skills, creativity and age) frame of mind, but this is nothing new. I am learning that uncertain realms are good dwelling places, and there are fine old lessons to be learned journeying in them. Hugging the shores of one's life is just fine, but the Great Mystery makes its home further out. Once in a while we have to paddle our canoes out into deeper waters to meet it.

Faced with an uncertain future (isn't the future always uncertain?), one simply pledges herself to embrace that future and whatever it holds with radical acceptance and a blithe spirit of adventure, then she potters onward. The face in the mirror looks a little more weathered every day, and at times it seems as furrowed as a newly turned field in springtime, but I am rather fond of this elder me. As I grow older, I am becoming quieter and more radical - as the late Florida Scott-Maxwell phrased it so beautifully in her memoir, "fierce with reality". Having been 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 wise, compelling and a little scary. Being grand would be lovely, but it is not going to happen.

Intentions for 2012 are simple. I shall spend more time reacquainting myself with the treasures in my library and more time rambling in the woods with Himself and Spencer, camera slung around my neck and notebook in hand. I shall spend more time watching sunrises and moonrises, more time listening than talking, more time just sitting and breathing, in and out, in and out. In other words, I shall work on the same stuff I worked on last year: on finding a measure of authenticity, on cultivating decency, tolerance and compassion, on loving the earth and plain old being kind. All are qualities which seem fragile and imperiled in our times, and I have a very long way to go.

Roshi John Tarrant, one of my favorite Zen thinkers and teachers, gives us a list of things to remember at any time of the year. His words are chock full of wisdom, and I return to them over and over again.

At this turning of the year, I offer up thanks to deities great and small for Himself and Spencer, for tribe, community, hearth and sangha, for good friends and traveling companions far and wide, for mountains, rivers and trees, radiant moons and starry starry nights. I give thanks for the wild wisdom and enlightenment of which I have yet to partake, but which I trust are waiting for me somewhere up the trail. Emaho!

Wrapped in the Waking World

2012-01-02T08:43:00.005-05:00

How to describe January yearnings for rantipole hues, curving shapes, foreign musics and exotic fragrances? It is snowing heavily here, and in such weather, one finds herself turning inward and a tad thoughtful, downing mug after mug of Darjeeling or Earl Grey, prowling through the library at all hours of the day and night, hauling out sketch books and playing with collage, looking for color - any old vibrant color will do.

In the kitchen I stare at a dish of chilis, a bowl of clementines or a tidy heap of saffron threads on the counter, and the color of a pomegranate on the sideboard stops me dead in my tracks. Beating eggs for this morning's Provençale omelet, I got lost in all the gold and stood gazing into the bowl for several minutes before getting on with the task at hand. It is a wonder that anyone in my tribe gets fed on days like these.

The birds in our snow drowned garden garden don't mind the weather, and outside there is the scarlet flash of cardinals' wings in the hedgerow, the blue of nattering jays, the yellow of grobeaks, the delicate grays and creams of chickadees and nuthatches at the feeders. Filling the bird feeders a few minutes ago, I stopped by the cathedral fretwork of rose canes along the fence, and along came a memory right out of the shaggy green halls of departed summer - one of multitudinous blush-colored blooms and old rose fragrance. A little further along, the old stone birdbath held a frothy confection of frozen russet leaves and stems, scallops of ice and bubbles like champagne. I was going to chuck out the contents and fill the birdbath with seed this week, but I can't bring myself to disturb the fetching frozen arrangement.

Returning indoors, I made a pot of tea and tucked John Williams' lovely Mediterranean Concerto on the CD player. Though it be snowing, the day is all good

On the First Day of the Year

2012-01-01T07:33:00.000-05:00

Wishing you light in 2012

At the End of the Year

2011-12-31T07:40:00.009-05:00

A good thing it is to end the calendar year like this, pale winter sunlight falling across a much loved river in the Lanark highlands and lighting up the snowdrifts and old willows on the other side. Ice is slow in forming, for the river is an old one, and her currents run fast and free. She's a wild goddess, a veritable crone among rivers, not the slightest bit intimidated by winter weather and subzero temperatures - she will resist freezing over completely as long as she is able to draw breath and taunt the season with her impetuous winding ways.

After the river freezes over, I stand and listen as she sings her way along under the ice, and she often seems to be singing a duet with the wind. There's a kind of Zen counterpoint between the two wild voices, two unbridled entities utterly independent in their contours and rhythm, but meticulously interwoven and seamless in their soaring harmonies.

Putting all notions of complex orchestration and liquid choreography aside, there's lovely music in the air on icy winter days by the shore. The sound of moving water has always been a leitmotif for me, and I often think that life can be measured in rivers and currents rather than cocktails, jewelry, pairs of shoes and coffee spoons. The thought of the river singing her way along under the ice is a comfort later in the long white season, and it seems right to be here on the last day of the year.

In springtime, I watched as the river overflowed her banks and published her claim to the fertile fields on both sides. In early summer, I counted bales of hay, photographed deer and wild turkeys feeding along her curving shoreline, watched the sun go down through the trees. It has only been a month or two since I sat here and cried my eyes out after learning that not one, but two people I love, had passed beyond the fields we know, not at the same time, but within a few days of each other. Not so long ago, I parked here for hours and tried to collect my thoughts after learning that an imperative medical treatment had stopped working. True to form, I wasn't really worried about expiring (I knew I would be back in some form or other), but I was stressed out from a thousand tests and hospital visits and was certain that I would be journeying beyond this realm as mad as a hatter. The river worked her magic, and I am still wandering about on this plane, but it could be reasonably argued that I have been more than a little peculiar ever since.

Bliadhna mhath urb (Scottish), ath bhliain faoi mhaise (Irish) or blwyddyn newydd dda (Welsh). Happy New Year everyone, and thank you for sharing the blogging journey with me this year. May there be joy and health and sweet abundance in your life in the months to come. May all good things come to you!

Friday Ramble - Embracing the Crone of Winter

2011-12-30T09:30:00.001-05:00

No doubt about it, Lady Winter has arrived. Arrayed in deep snow and companioned by the icy north wind, she came striding over the ridge a few days ago, and she is here to stay this time. In her iron grip, we find ourselves thinking about moving away, or if staying put, going into hibernation as the bears do.

There are things we do not remember in winter, and things we fail to understand most of the time - that cold clear waters flow effortlessly along under all the ice and snow, that the fallen leaves trapped within the ice on the river were once green and living things and will nourish their descendents in springtime. We focus on moving the snow out of our way and fail to understand that snow is an integral part of our path, that next year's leaves, flowers and fruit are sleeping snugly somewhere underneath it all. Winter's deep snows are just where they are supposed to be - it is we who are in their way and much of the time in our own way too.

On a cold morning in the woods, simple truth sometimes comes flooding into one's senses like the north wind or a fast running river. Even the slumbering trees seem to echo that truth as one looks up at their perfect snowy arches against the sky. However one feels about the long white season, being here and truly present in winter is something special.

Thursday Poem - At the End of the Year

2011-12-29T06:52:00.000-05:00

The particular mind of the ocean

Filling the coastline's longing

With such brief harvest

Of elegant, vanishing waves

Is like the mind of time

Opening us shapes of days.

As this year draws to its end,

We give thanks for the gifts it brought

And how they became inlaid within

Where neither time nor tide can touch them.

The days when the veil lifted

And the soul could see delight;

When a quiver caressed the heart

In the sheer exuberance of being here.

Surprises that came awake

In forgotten corners of old fields

Where expectation seemed to have quenched.

The slow, brooding times

When all was awkward

And the wave in the mind

Pierced every sore with salt.

The darkened days that stopped

The confidence of the dawn.

Days when beloved faces shone brighter

With light from beyond themselves;

And from the granite of some secret sorrow

A stream of buried tears loosened.

We bless this year for all we learned,

For all we loved and lost

And for the quiet way it brought us

Nearer to our invisible destination.

John O'Donohue,

from To Bless the Space Between Us

Winter Musics Large and Small

2011-12-28T05:26:00.000-05:00

One of those fine, sunny and blue winter mornings which seldom makes an appearance in late December, and is always accompanied by deep cold and wind.

The river is cloaked in mist and doing its very best to freeze over - even in places where the currents are strong, unruly and reluctant to give way to winter. In places the ice forms abstract paintings in lustrous palettes and flowing shapes, thin sunlight washing over everything in shades of pallid gold and ghostly silver.

It has been cold enough in the last day or two that at times we are sometimes unable to break through the ice crust when walking along deer trails in Lanark - crunchy going all the way. The forest is a noisy place to be in such weather, a wide and treacherous realm of breaking glass in which sturdy boots and protective head gear are imperative.

A bitter wind goes dancing among the ice-coated trees, and it creates a veritable symphony as it goes along. The instruments are organic, and the principal notes are tinkles and chimes, rattles and creaks, groans and falling ice. Mama Gaia (the Old Wild Mother) is the original scribe and maker, the primal composer of music cosmic, refulgent and terrestrial.

This morning, a small cameo appearance from the doddering scribe/photographer, (me). . . . Near the end of one calendar year and the beginning of another, there is something reckless, daring and rather appealing about the idea of showing up here in person, but as just a patch of strong blue shadow in my favorite landscape, an antiquated abstraction in which no visual details of the gnarly old metabolism are revealed.

Boxing Day Guests

2011-12-27T07:44:00.000-05:00

White-breasted Nuthatch

(Sitta carolinensis)

Yesterday's Gift

2011-12-26T07:25:00.002-05:00

It's here, it's here, it's here!

On This Festive Morning

2011-12-25T06:31:00.000-05:00

In the Crystal Forest

2011-12-24T08:02:00.001-05:00

Friday Ramble - Winter

2011-12-23T06:50:00.003-05:00

Icy winds blow, and night temperatures plummet; we wade hunched and swaddled through the woods with our heads down against the wind. What else could this be but winter?

The word comes to us from the Old English expression once used to describe the fourth season of the year, thence the Proto-Germanic word wentruz meaning "wet season", probably originating in the Proto-Indo-European wed, wod or ud meaning "wet" or "wind". There are possible ties to the Old Celtic vindo meaning "white", although that word sounds more like the modern English "wind" to me. The Old Norse form sounds just like the modern word "weather" and may indeed be its root form. Cognates include the Gothic wintru, Icelandic vetur, Swedish vinte, Danish vinter and Norwegian vetter.

Wherever it hails from, the word we use to describe the coldest (and wettest) season of the year has been around for a very long time, and most of the cultures on this island earth have a word for it. The season occupies a particular place in our thoughts, dancing dramatically in a stronger light than its three more temperate kin. We tend to predicate our activities in the other three seasons on what we must do to make ready for winter, turning the earth, planting, harvesting, putting things by for the short days and long nights, piling firewood to burn on our hearths when the snow flies.

Because of the ferocity of northern winters, the ancient Anglo-Saxons measured their calendar years from one winter to the next. In Old Norse, the word vetrardag which was used to designate the first day of the long cold season was the Saturday that fell between Oct. 10 and 16. For the ancient Celts, winter began at Samhain (October 31) or All Hallows (November 1) and ended on Imbolc or Candlemas (February 1 or 2) when springtime arrived. In the Chinese lunisolar calendar, a year is measured from one Winter Solstice to the next, and winter begins around November 7, with the jie qi (or solar term) called the "opening of winter". Astronomically, the season is said to begin at the Winter Solstice in late December and end at the Vernal Equinox in late March - not so this far north where winter usually arrives some time in October and lingers until late April or even May.

It's all relative and a matter of cosmic balance. We owe the lineaments of our existence in the Great Round of time and the four seasons to a tilt in the earth's axis as it spins merrily in space. When winter is beginning here, the happy lands south of the equator are cavorting toward summer. I cling tenaciously to that thought in the depths of frozen January - that there is high summer and sunlight and greening somewhere in the world.

Around this time of the year, I briefly consider living somewhere where winter is a more temperate beastie, but it isn't going to happen. Rather than migrating, I pile up books and music and accumulate a good store of tea, stack firewood, make bread and cookies, count the jars of jam in my larder. I take out my parka and heavy gloves, wax the old skis and oil my snowshoes for long winter rambles.

There is little or no snow this year except deep in the woods, so my traveling apparatus will probably not see much use until next month, and I am feeling just a bit cheated. We have been having some lovely frosts though, and I run outside as soon as there is enough light to photograph them. To truly know the north woods, one has to journey through them in winter, spend hours drinking in the shapes of trees with eyes and lens, breathing in and out with them on snow drowned hillsides, listening to the snow falling among their perfect bare and beckoning branches.

Thursday Poem - At the Winter Solstice

2011-12-22T07:13:00.001-05:00

Owl hoots three times in the far woods,
fair warning for all small creatures
scurrying to their burrows.

Are we not still and always
those crouching figures
who flee the heavenly alchemy?
Three times in the crackling air,
Owl hoots for us.

*
Wind plays the drums of snow...
staccato taps,
crescendo off the roofs,
flourish of shuddering branches.
Ice snaps its castanets,
its daggers.

Atonal music of the darkest days
needs the most fearless,
subtle listeners.

*
Those strumming flamenco
fingers of sunlight
are a long time away from now.

Now we go comforted
in dreams and ceremonies,
flaming our star-speck candles,
raising our voices against that other music,
drowning out the forever
at night’s heart.

*
Look up! The wheel is turning.
The spectacular crowd of stars,
the tangle of dimensions
jostle for our attention.
Salute the birth of everything holy.

This beautiful poem was written for the Winter Solstice by Dolores Stewart Riccio and was published in her exquisite Doors to the Universe. It is posted here with the kind permission of the poet.

Wordless Wednesday - Solstice Light

2011-12-21T07:31:00.004-05:00

At This Turning of the Light

2011-12-20T07:39:00.006-05:00

After a time of decay comes the turning point. The powerful light that has been banished returns. There is movement, but it is not brought about by force... the movement is natural, arising spontaneously. For this reason the transformation of the old becomes easy. The old is discarded and the new is introduced. Both measures accord with the time; therefore no harm results.

The idea of RETURN is based on the course of nature. The movement is cyclic, and the course completes itself. Therefore it is not necessary to hasten anything artificially. Everything comes of itself at the appointed time. This is the meaning of heaven and earth.

24. Fu / Return (The Turning Point)
The Ching, Book of Changes

Yule is the best of times for stillness and reflection, and we will spend it quietly, or as quietly as frenetic holiday times permit. No fire on the shore of the lake this year, but there will be a trip out to the woods tomorrow and time spent among the snow capped highland cedars and spruces. We will take grain and apples and cut cedar browse for the deer, put out suet cakes and seed for the birds, deliver wine and loaves of the family fruitcake to friends later. Then home to fresh salmon, risotto and greens, followed by music, firelight, candlelight and tea.

There is a wealth of Yule lore and traditions at time priestess Waverly Fitzgerald's poetic and thoughtful Living in Season, and Joanna Powell Colbert at Gaian Soul offers us expressive meditations on the meaning of the season, turning light and natural rhythms. For information on Yuletide traditions across the world, visit Dr. Kathleen Jenks at Mything Links. Teresa Ruano's lovely Candlegrove has always been one of my favorite web groves at this time of the year, but the site is below the horizon at present - I entertain fervent hopes that it will rise again in the near future.

Joy on your journey and brightest blessings at this turning of the light.

Waiting: wishing: hoping

2011-12-19T06:14:00.002-05:00

There he (or she) is, all fluffed up against the cold wind, clinging to the old ash tree and looking through the kitchen window at me as I stand looking out with tea in hand. The face is a study in mischievous curiosity, forbearance, and the fond hope that someone will flounder outside and replenish the feeders in the garden, one of which is just for squirrels.

One after another, village squirrels line up on the veranda railing in winter like a procession of little grey Buddhas. They await their turn at the breakfast buffet, their faces full of longing, tiny paws are tucked into their belly fur for warmth.

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

Winter's Eye

2011-12-18T06:30:00.000-05:00

Winter's eye is passionate,

seeks defining shapes and patterns in the snow,

sweep of north wind and frozen river,

smoke curling skyward from farmhouse chimneys,

flowing curve of hoary branch and bend of whitened tree,

the glossy brush of ice and crackling frost.

There's a flash of color here and there,

red of cardinal's wing and berried hawthorn,

lacy green of cedar, soaring blue of spruce,

the burnished gold of sleeping willow,

deep indigo of twilight's lengthening shadow

along the fence in its perfect cloak of white.

Cate

Winter Sunset

2011-12-17T05:56:00.000-05:00

Friday Ramble - Consider

2011-12-16T08:30:00.002-05:00

It is one of my favorite words in the whole English lexicon, partly because of the notions of careful thought, deliberation and balance implicit within, but mostly because of its celestial origins.

Think Vincent Van Gogh and his gorgeous "Starry Starry Night" here... The word consider comes to us from around 1350 CE, and it traces its origins through the Middle English consideren and the Latin considerare, both words meaning "with the stars" or "in the company of the stars". Those origins are shared with other English words like constellation and sidereal, the former describing a whole group of stars glowing up there in the night sky, and the latter meaning simply "starry" and by extension, celestial or heavenly.

Small wonder that sentient beings are given to considering. Forged from the dust of ancient stars, we are probably never more true to ourselves or more in tune with our fundamental natures and our inner light than when we are engaging in the liminal act of considering something.

In considering something (in the true sense of the word) and holding that something gently in our thoughts, we are paying attention to what really matters, to what lies at the heart of earthly existence. In entertaining consideration, we are moving away from the profane and the mundane and flowing toward the archetypal, the authentic and a bone deep sense of connection with the living world of which we are such tiny insignificant parts. Dancing motes in the eye of the infinite are we.

It is one thing to consider our origins on a clear December night when the moon and stars are so close one can almost reach out and touch them. It is another thing entirely to do it when the world is all wrapped up in murk, and one can't see anything down here on the earth, let alone the sky and dancing stars above. The stars from which we came are still present though - they are right up there and shining down on us.

Considering, we are traveling toward something wild, authentic, magical and mysterious, and we are doing it with the stars as our kin and traveling companions. As Clarissa Pinkola Estes wrote in "Women Who Run With the Wolves":

"We find lingering evidence of archetype in the images and symbols found in stories, literature, poetry, painting, and religion. It would appear that its glow, its voice, and its fragrance are meant to cause us to be raised up from contemplating the shit on our tails to occasionally traveling in the company of the stars."

Thursday Poem - How Swiftly

2011-12-15T07:12:00.000-05:00

How swiftly the strained honey
of afternoon light
flows into darkness

and the closed bud shrugs off
its special mystery
in order to break into blossom:

as if what exists, exists
so that it can be lost
and become precious

Lisel Mueller

Magick for Terri

2011-12-14T11:40:00.002-05:00

This is the last day for submitting bids on the amazing items being auctioned at Magick for Terri, a fundraising initiative to benefit mythic artist, editor and author Terri Windling and her family and assist them in coping with serious financial troubles arising from health and legal issues.

If the world of folklore, mythic fiction and fantasy literature has a muse, it is Terri. There are copies in my library of everything she has ever written, my favorite (of course) being her Mythopoeic Award winning novel, The Wood Wife.

Terri has given generously of herself over the years, and now it is our turn to give something back. Please visit the auction site and think about bidding on one of the many wonderful items - there are drawings, paintings, antiques, pieces of jewelry, signed books, collectibles, music, and tantalizing offers from some of the foremost figures working in the fields of fantasy art and literature today.

Wednesday Not Quite Wordless - Seeing Stars

2011-12-14T06:40:00.044-05:00

Star Anise (Illicium verum)

It has something to do with the season methinks - this looking for and finding stars in all sorts of likely and unlikely places - snowflakes, apples and pomegranates, anise in the spice cupboard, lights on the midwinter solstice tree, jeweled twinklings on the Yule wreaths adorning front doors in the village.

Then there are the dazzling and multitudinous stars in the inky dome of the heavens on long clear winter nights - sometimes they seem so close that one could reach out and touch them. The region of the summer stars is grand, but oh, these winter nights...

The Sound of Snow

2011-12-13T05:25:00.003-05:00

This image of Kinkakuji, Kyoto's Golden Pavilion, arrived with holiday greetings from a Japanese law firm with whom I did intellectual property work in the bad and sad old days when I engaged in corporate employment downtown. Deadlines and court filings were piled up to the ceiling when I opened the envelope that December day and extracted the little jewel of a card, but in that precious fleeting moment, all the cares of the day passed away like smoke. I caught my breath in delight and knew that the image was a "keeper", something I would retain and cherish and revisit, time and time again. The framed image is tucked away for part of the year, but here we are in winter again, and the print has come out of hibernation to grace the western wall in my studio again.

The original Golden Pavilion formed part of a retreat complex created in 1397 for the shogun Ashikaga Yoshimitusu, who had just abdicated the throne in favor of his son. It contained a pagoda or two, living quarters, temples, a bell tower and formal gardens. When the old shogun died a few years later, the pavilion became a Zen temple in accordance with his wishes, and so it remains to this day, a revered shariden formally called Kinkaku-ji (Temple of the Golden Pavilion) or Rokuon-ji (Deer Garden Temple). Enshrining relics (ashes) of the Buddha, the temple exudes a timeless sense of peace by the lake in its exquisite garden setting. The present structure is covered in gold leaf and looks old, but is a replica erected in the fifties after a mad monk torched the original.

The companion piece in my studio at this time of the year is an old and fragile rendering of the same temple on rice paper, and it also graced the wall in my office downtown. At difficult moments in my working life, the two images always conveyed peace and serenity, and now they continue to give both pleasure and peace here at home. Both scenes are beautifully rendered, and there are times when I can almost hear the snow falling and coming to rest among the trees.

There is nothing on my little gem of a card to indicate who the artist was, and I don't really need to know, but I wish I could say "thank you". It (the card) arrived at just the right moment, and it continues to bring pleasure now, many years later.

Himself in Snow

2011-12-12T06:53:00.000-05:00

December's Elder Moon

2011-12-11T04:41:00.001-05:00

How quickly time flies away! Here we are at the twelfth and last full moon of this calendar year, and it seems only yesterday that Spencer and I were out in the garden shivering and watching the first full moon of the year rise over the trees.

The thirteen moons (twelve this year) of a calendar year wear different names, faces and personalities according to one's culture, where one happens to live in the world and what the seasonal activities of one's native place are. There are common threads or themes to lunar lore though, and the moon's names provide food for thought about the nature of community, hearth and connection. They speak eloquently of timeless natural rhythms and the calendar of the seasons: springtime and green things springing from the earth, planting and weeding, hunting, harvesting and gathering in, rest and regeneration.

December's moon falls at the darkest time of year in the north, and for me it will always be either the Elder Moon or the Long Nights Moon. The elder tree is December's sylvan symbol in the Celtic tree calendar, and December's moon falls during the darkest time of the year, so both names are apt. This is also the month of my birthday (today in fact), and so I have particular fondess for this radiant winter moon.

It makes me happy to think that when January's full moon arrives next month, daylight hours will be lengthening again and we will be on our way to Spring and warmth. Having said that, we will be making our slow and careful way through bitter cold, deep snow and high winds, and there is a long way to go. Now and then, there will be confetti skies at sunrise, and the dark vaults of heaven will be full of stars at night. Such celestial happenings make our journeying through the Great Round a joyous undertaking, and in all the frenetic "toing and froing" of this holiday season, that is a fine thought to cling to.

We also know this moon as the: Ashes Fire Moon, Bauhinia Moon, Bear Moon, Beginning of the Winter Moon, Big Bear's Moon, Big Winter Moon, Birch Moon, Center Moon's Younger Brother, Cold Moon, Cold Time Moon, Bitter Moon, Deer Shed Their Horns Moon, Dumannos Moon, Eccentric Moon, Frozen over Moon, Heavy Snow Moon, Holy Moon, Hellebore Moon, Her Winter Houses Moon, Hunting Moon, Ice Lasts All Day Moon, Ice Moon, Little Finger Moon, Little Spirits Moon, Long Nights Moon, Long Snows Moon, Midwinter Moon, Moon of Cold, Moon of Long Nights, Moon of Much Cold, Moon of Popping Trees, Moon of Putting Your Paddle Away in the Bush, Moon of Respect, Moon When Buffalo Cow's Fetus Is Getting Large, Moon When Deer Shed Their Horns, Moon When Little Black Bears Are Born, Moon When the Young Fellow Spreads the Brush, Moon When the Wolves Run Together, Moon When the Sun Has Traveled South to His Home to Rest Before He Starts Back on His Journey North, Narcissus Moon, Night Moon, Oak Moon, Paulownia Moon, Peach Moon, Poinsettia Moon, Popping Trees Moon, Poppy Moon, Real Goose Moon, Sap Moon, Sjelcasen Moon, Solstice Moon, Snow Moon, Star Frost Moon, Turning Moon, Twelfth Moon, Under Burn Moon, White Orchid Tree Moon, Winter Maker Moon, Winter Moon, World Darkness Moon, Yule Moon

I also rather like "Midwinter Moon" and "Little Spirits Moon". Wherever you live in the world, and whatever form your own celestial rites or observances take, I wish you joy on your journey at this turning of the Wheel.

Waiting Patiently

2011-12-10T07:39:00.000-05:00

On the Library Table - Cleopatra's Moon

2011-12-09T06:31:00.128-05:00

One reads of the legendary Ptolemaic queen of Egypt now and again - Cleopatra VII of the raven hair, painted eyes and supposedly wanton ways. Perhaps it's inevitable given the drama and mythic proportions of a glamorous life ended too soon (and deliberately) by the bite of an asp. We pay scant attention to those came after her though, and across the sands of time, their stories are engaging, especially that of her young daughter Cleopatra VIII Selene.

Vicky Alvear Shecter's book begins when Cleopatra VIII Selene and her twin brother Alexander Helios were seven, and their brother Ptolemy Philadelphus a mere toddler.
The young princess's middle name meant "moon" and corresponded to her twin's middle name meaning "sun". Their parents, Cleopatra VII and the Roman general Mark Antony, heaped privileges on their offspring, but the pampered existence of the young royals was to be cut short. Egypt fell to invading Roman legions, their parents committed suicide, and they travelled to Rome as captives of Octavian, later to become the emperor Caesar Augustus.

After being paraded through the city in chains, the children were handed over to Octavia Minor (Octavian's older sister and Mark Antony's former wife) to raise. Shecter has Alexander die at sea in the opening pages of the book as a plot device, but he and his little brother made it to Rome and vanished from official records shortly afterward. The two boys were viable candidates for the throne, and there is a strong possibility that they were murdered. Some time later, Caesar Augustus gave Cleopatra Selene, by then probably the sole living member of the Ptolemaic dynasty, to Juba II of Numidia in marriage. Gifted with a lavish dowry by the emperor, the young couple went off to ancient Mauretania (modern day Morocco and Algeria) to rule in Rome's name and found a new royal dynasty there. Thus the Ptolemaic bloodline survived in Africa.

Vicky Alvear Shecter has done remarkable things in writing this book. She knows the times and the political currents which shaped them, and she brings the era to life gloriously. As well as being a fine writer, she is a scholar, and her research was impeccable - the Alexandrian and Roman settings of the novel and the two societies depicted are wonderfully drawn. There are gods and goddesses (particularly the goddess Isis), opulently appointed nurseries and jeweled toys, banquets with exotic menus, alluring musics, roses and spices and perfumes in abundance. The young Cleopatra Selene is fierce, charming, headstrong and determined to go home. She is a worthy female descendant to an ancient queen who did things her own way from start to finish and set tongues wagging from one end of the ancient world to the other.

Cleopatra's Moon is being marketed as a young adult book, but it is a wonderful read for all ages. If I had young granddaughters or great granddaughters of an age to read it, I would certainly be giving them the book for Yule, but I plan to read it again myself during the holidays and am looking forward to soaking up the sounds and sights of ancient Egypt once more - the place has long been an interest of mine. And ancient Rome??? Not so much - going by the descriptions of Cleopatra Selene, ancient Rome was short on culture and something of a vast rubbish heap.

Thursday Poem - December Moon

2011-12-08T06:21:00.047-05:00

Moon of mindlessness, of lying fallow
in fields of frozen shocks.
Moon of fingering old poems like rosary beads,
of quiet breathing under memory quilts.

Moon of reflection in icebound ponds,
of gazing at fractals in frost.
Moon of upstart pine and primordial oak
bearing the burdens of holy snow.

How the beauty of this world
is like a secret so old and widespread
that none believe it. Something so huge
could not be hidden, everyone says,

and they go on about their business
of accumulating stores and storage space
while rumors of extraordinary wonder
run like melted silver through the streets.

Moon of small fires and story-telling.
Moon of slow-growing light,
the shadow of wings across the sky,
the womb of becoming, the birth.

Dolores Stewart
From The Nature of Things

This exquisite poem poem printed here with the poet's kind permission.

Wordless Wednesday - Winter's Morning Rite

2011-12-07T08:00:00.000-05:00

A Yuletide Reading List

2011-12-06T07:09:00.000-05:00

The days grow short, the nights grow long, and one thinks about curling up near the hearth with tea, seasonal munchies and a good book or three. Here's a list of my favorite reading materials for this festive time of the year when we are all thinking about light, community and feasting. Some of these books are out of print, but they can sometimes be found in used book shops online, and they are, very often, happy campers in your local library.

The Oxford Book of Days,
Bonnie Blackburn and Leofranc Holford-Strevens

Echoes of Magic: A Study of Seasonal Festivals through the Ages,
C.A. Burland

Ancient Ways: Reclaiming Pagan Traditions
Pauline and Dan Campanelli

Wheel of the Year: Living the Magical Life
Pauline and Dan Campanelli

The Return of the Light: Twelve Tales from Around the World for the Winter Solstice,
Carolyn McVickar Edwards

Kindling the Celtic Spirit,
Mara Freeman

A Calendar of Festivals, Traditional Celebrations, Songs, Seasonal Recipes and Things to Make,
Marian Green

The Sun in the Church: Cathedrals As Solar Observatories,
John L. Heilbron

Celebrate the Solstice: Honoring the Earth's Seasonal Rhythms through Festival and Ceremony,
Richard Heinberg

Celestially Auspicious Occasions: Seasons, Cycles & Celebrations,
Donna Henes

Stations of the Sun: A History of the Ritual Year in Britain
Ronald Hutton

The Winter Solstice
Ellen Jackson

The Dance of Time: The Origins of the Calendar: A Miscellany of History and Myth, Religion and Astronomy, Festivals and Feast Days,
Michael Judge

The Solstice Evergreen: History, Folklore and Origins of the Christmas Tree,
Sheryl Karas

Perpetual Almanack of Folklore
Charles Kightly

Sacred Celebrations: A Sourcebook
Glennie Kindred

Celebrations Of Light : A Year of Holidays Around the World
Nancy Luenn and Mark Bender (Illustrator)

The Winter Solstice: The Sacred Traditions of Christmas,
John Matthews and Caitlin Matthews

Christmas in Ritual and Tradition
Clement A. Miles

Yule: A Celebration of Light and Warmth (Holiday Series),
Dorothy Morrison

The Battle for Christmas
Stephen Nissenbaum

Sacred Origins of Profound Things: The Stories Behind The Rites and Rituals of The World's Religions,
Charles Panati

The Shortest Day: Celebrating the Winter Solstice,
Wendy Pfeffer and Jesse Reisch

Pagan Christmas: The Plants, Spirits, and Rituals at the Origins of Yuletide,
Christian Rätsch and Claudia Müller-Ebeling

All Around the Year, Holidays and Celebrations in American Life,
Jack Santino

Circle Round: Raising Children in the Goddess Tradition,
Starhawk, Anne Hill and Diane Baker

Keeping Christmas: Yuletide Traditions In Norway And The New Land
Kathleen Stokker

When Santa Was A Shaman: Ancient Origins of Santa Claus & the Christmas Tree,
Tony van Renterghem

The Fires of Yule: A Keltelven Guide for Celebrating the Winter Solstice,
Montague Whitsel

At least three of Dolores Stewart Riccio's Circle novels involve Yuletide and I shall be reading them again this year. Last, but certainly not least, the holiday interval would not be complete without rereading Susan Cooper's Dark is Rising sequence in its entirety: Over Sea, Under Stone, The Dark is Rising, Greenwitch, The Grey King and Silver on the Tree.

On the Library Table - The Divine Circle of Ladies Painting the Town

2011-12-05T07:50:00.010-05:00

Cassandra Shipton and her divine circle (or coven) of ladies are at it again, and as usual there is more than a touch of cunning woman to their undertakings.

At the request of a friend, Cass agrees to help an ex-model named Ada learn to control her pyro-kinetic talents. The sordid antics of Ada's estranged husband are fanning the flames of her latent abilities, and if something is not done quickly, she just may start a fire that makes her existence too hot to handle. The troubled wife has good reasons to be hostile - a cad and a bounder of the first order, the philandering Jerry is conniving to have her committed to a mental institution in order to gain control of her physical and financial property.

Cass is comfortably ensconced in her beloved seaside cottage with her Greenpeace engineer husband Joe Ulysses and is working with Ada when she learns that the photographer paramour of one of the circle (Diedre) has been abducted for ransom by a Calabrian crime syndicate while on assignment in Rome.

The divine circle of ladies flies off to Rome subito to comfort their coven mate and solve the kidnapping. Once in Italy, they are joined by a powerful group of rural strega who add their own potent blend of earthy magic to the matter of liberating Diedre's gentleman friend. When he manages to escape from his kidnappers, the women are off to see all the best sights in Italy including Venice and Pompeii.

On returning home, the circle learns that Ada's husband Jerry has perished in his own home by fire, and that Ada has been charged with his murder. Cass's newfound ability to induce and channel her psychic visions is put to the test during the ensuing investigation, and so are the formidable powers of her coven sisters. All will be well of course, for the women of the circle are more than a match for any evil doer they meet in their travels.

I've been a fan of the Cassandra Shipton novels since a friend gave me the first one as a gift years ago, and this eighth is a delight, a reading experience to be treasured. This book has it all - paranormal events and fey abilities, arcane doings, rollicking adventures, deep dark mysteries and sordid crimes to be solved - there are tantalizing snippets of herbal lore and gorgeous recipes too. I often wish "the ladies" lived in my village, for they are, one and all, rare and splendid characters, and I would enjoy knowing them.

Dolores Stewart Riccio goes from strength to strength in writing these novels, and the "Divine Circle" series gets better with every book published - I am already looking forward to the next one.

Nested Within

2011-12-04T07:25:00.000-05:00

Journeying to the Gaian Tarot

2011-12-03T05:45:00.026-05:00

This morning's offering is a guest post by my friend and mermaid sister, Joanna Powell Colbert, creatrix of the beautiful Gaian Tarot; - appropriate as I am now wrapping up copies of the deck to appear as gifts under the Yule and birthday trees of friends and kindred spirits here in the village and out in the snowy Lanark highlands.

I have been watching in admiration as Joanna's deck came into being during the last nine years, and at last, her creation is complete - it is making its way out into the great wide world to do the vital work of fostering wisdom and community, building bridges, healing each other and Mother Earth, She who is the mother of us all. I cherish my copy of the limited edition "Majors Only" Gaian Tarot, and now the full deck has been published by Llewellyn - it too is becoming a treasured companion on this meandering journey of mine toward mindfulness and authenticity. Thank you, Joanna!

When I was 18 years old (a million years ago), I came across a deck of tarot cards and promptly fell in love with the strangely compelling images. I played with that deck for a few years, memorizing meanings from the little white book, and trying to apply the written meanings to my life without much success. Then my spiritual interests changed, and I put the tarot cards away for over ten years.

When I came back to them, it was with a renewed interest in the Divine Feminine (Cate’s “Old Wild Mother”). I moved to a small island in the Pacific Northwest and threw myself into nature-awareness studies. In the process, I fell deeply in love with the special, magical Place where I was living. I built a straw bale house with my husband, planted a garden and learned all about the native plants and wildlife. I hadn’t touched a tarot deck in years, but I knew it was time to create one that was uniquely my own. And all the passion and knowledge of getting to know my own Place went into the Gaian Tarot.

Many of the scenes on the cards are specific places on the island, as well as in the greater Northwest. The people in the cards are all based on people that I know. They are part of my spiritual community and my island community. I used to go for long rambling walks around the island, asking myself “Where is the energy of this particular card in the natural world?” And I would often receive inspiration for the card I was working on.

Tarot author Rachel Pollack says that the tarot is a book of wisdom, like the Bible or Torah or Koran. And, I would add, like the Book of Nature. I believe, along with Joanna Macy and many others, that we are at the time of the Great Turning, when humanity can either self-destruct or evolve. I see turning to cards like my Gaian Tarot as a source of Wisdom to be one of the ways we can each grow into our Deepest, Wisest Selves, and then to turn our gaze outwards and help to heal the world.

I don’t use the cards for fortunetelling, although some people do. It can be useful, however, to take a “what-if” approach. You might say to yourself, “What if the cards could point something out to me that I might otherwise be missing?”

You could ask the cards my favorite all-purpose question: “What do I need to know right now about a particular situation in my life?” and pull one to three cards. Just allow yourself to gaze at the cards and notice any emotional reactions or personal associations you might have with the cards. Allow your intuition to awaken, and jot down a few notes about what you think the cards might mean in relation to your situation. Finally, open the book and read what it is written about the card. Take what applies to you and leave the rest. Remember, your intuition trumps the book meaning every time.

How I wish someone had told me that, back when I was 18!

Joanna Powell Colbert,
November 30, 2011

Friday Ramble - Calling the Sun Home

2011-12-02T09:03:00.000-05:00

It is what happens at this time of year when the days grow ever shorter and snow falls, when rivers and lakes freeze over, an icy wind howls in nearby gutters and the eaves of our little blue house in the village. I pull the draperies closed early and shut out the gloom beyond the windows, taking refuge and delight in small seasonal rites. I brew pots of tea (one after the other), pummel loaves of bread, concoct fiery curries and spicy cookies, draw, read and dream, plot luxuriant gardens for next year (more roses and herbs, perhaps a whole Medicine Wheel garden) and forge grand schemes which will probably never see the light of day.

As dark as the days ahead may be, there is light to come. Here we are in December, and that means that in only three weeks, our northern days will begin to lengthen again. Hallelujah! It will be months until it is truly warm and light here again, but at least we will be on our way, and Yule just may be my favorite day in the whole turning year. When it arrives, there will be celebrations and silliness, candles, music and mulled cider to drive away the darkness and welcome old Helios back to the world. He is still here of course, but the Old Wild Mother's seasonal wobble makes him seem more distant than he actually is.

As sunlight hours continue to wane between now and Yuletide, I am lighting a special candle each Sunday at dusk in the timeless observance called the "Advent Sun Wheel". In so doing, I join Joanna Powell Colbert, Waverly FItzgerald, Beth Owl's Daughter and a circle of kindred spirits in honoring the fruitful darkness and calling the sun home.

Being the elderly magpie creature that I am and a passionate collector of timely lore, I am very interested in your own "before Yule" practices and would be delighted if you could share them here.

Poetry Thursday - Daily

2011-12-01T09:09:00.000-05:00

These shriveled seeds we plant,

corn kernel, dried bean,

poke into loosened soil,

cover over with measured fingertips

These T-shirts we fold into

perfect white squares

These tortillas we slice and fry to crisp strips

This rich egg scrambled in a gray clay bowl

This bed whose covers I straighten

smoothing edges till blue quilt fits brown blanket

and nothing hangs out

This envelope I address

so the name balances like a cloud

in the center of sky

This page I type and retype

This table I dust till the scarred wood shines

This bundle of clothes I wash and hang and wash again

like flags we share, a country so close

no one needs to name it

The days are nouns: touch them

The hands are churches that worship the world

Naomi Shihab Nye,

(From The Words Under the Words)

Wordless Wednesday - Out of the Swing of the Sea

2011-11-30T06:00:00.004-05:00

Sunlight and Frost Enfolded

2011-11-29T06:51:00.001-05:00

There is hoarfrost on the old trees, and a thin skim of glassy ice on the pond. The winter sun sparks pale gold in the pewter sky, lighting up the grove of pines where I am standing. The thin yellow light glosses a woodland pool before my wandering feet, making the ice crystals twinkle and flash - it makes a fine abstract painting, and I watch as the light flows across the surface. Everything else is muted and hazy this morning, and the damp cold goes right through to the bones.

Late November finds a northern dweller perched like an indomitable bird, perhaps a nuthatch, between Samhain (or Halloween) and the frantic scurryings of Yuletide. Migratory birds are long gone for the most part, although geese remain in the fields and will be here for some time yet. The landscape is a pallid sepia study crowned from here to there with skeletal whiskery trees and crunching field grasses.

An excoriating north wind roars across the highlands and whips through the hollows, scouring the earth, driving fallen leaves, pebbles and small branches before it. The rocks at the bottom of the gorge are lashed with torrents of water a few degrees above freezing, the granite lavishly coated, shiny and sporting the season's first slick shards of lacy ice.

This weather is raw and wild and exhilarating stuff when one is in the mood and wearing both winter woolies and oilskins. Here we go again - another long white season in which the artist dresses up in every warm garment she possesses, slings a camera around her neck, fills her pockets with peripheral devices and notebooks, then goes off to plumb the mysteries of winter. She can do this, and she is looking forward to it.

By Winter Crowned

2011-11-28T06:40:00.004-05:00

Capped and Waiting

2011-11-27T06:39:00.001-05:00

Birch Conk

(Piptoporus betulinus)

The woods are somewhat monotoned at this time of the year, and so it is that small details dance in place and beg to be noticed by intrepid wanderers in wooded places.

Birch conks and milkweed pods wear caps of snow, and solitary leaves dangle in their place on cords of shimmering spider silk from last summer's webs. Rocks glisten, and puddles in the hollows are outlined in ice crystals.

The local chickadees leave a trail of sunflower seed husks behind like crumbs as they follow us into the deep woods chirping, and the shrike community are draping their nourishment in nearby hawthorn trees for later noshing. There isn't a single berry to be seen on thorn or shrub, although a flash of scarlet here and there would be welcome.

Every detail seems to stand out in late November, and I understand why Freeman Patterson calls it his favorite month for photography in the wilds. In the vast gray, white and sepia scheme of untamed places are a thousand and one small treasures inviting our attention, waiting patiently for us to wake up and acknowledge their presence.

Morning Offerings

2011-11-26T07:45:00.000-05:00

Friday Ramble - Anointed

2011-11-25T07:58:00.000-05:00

The world beyond the windows is wonderfully nebulous and hushed behind its veil. Curiously soothing and comforting are vistas which seldom invite a thoughtful glance later in winter, the garden anointed with white like icing sugar, openings in our old rail fence with a few rimed strands of rusty wire looped around the uprights, the grainy texture and dry fragrance of the cedar posts themselves, dead mulleins and grasses blowing in the wind, floating leaves like snowflakes falling and coming to rest in the white, bare trees lightly dusted with crystals and arching overhead like cathedral windows.

The trail across the field and up into the woods to fill the bird feeders is a magical artery, a sinuous flowing ribbon of white looping its way around thickets, brambles and dancing milkweed. The snow falling among the trees is a symphony and precious beyond words, one of my favorite musics in this hoary old span of earthly days.

The word anoint comes to us from the Middle English anoynten (derivative of the past participle anoynt or enoynt) and the Old French enoint, both hailing from the Latin inunctus or inungere meaning to daub or sprinkle with oil, other liquid or salve. In modern parlance, to anoint something is to consecrate it or make it sacred through a token application of some kind, and there is often an element of ritual or ceremony involved in such undertakings, a dedication to service.

It always seems to me that there is something wonderful waiting to be known after the first snows anoint the north, a wild and canny insight that is unhurried in revealing itself to an elderly scribe and photographer. Chances are that there is an elusive knowing right in front of me, and I have neither the eyes or wits to recognize what is being held out in offering. This place is already sacred. Perhaps it is enough to understand that there are wonders grand and fey and elemental here in these winter woods and gardens.

Thursday Poem - Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T06:50:00.001-05:00

I have been trying to read
the script cut in these hills—
a language carved in the shimmer of stubble
and the solid lines of soil, spoken
in the thud of apples falling
and the rasp of corn stalks finally bare.

The pheasants shout it with a rusty creak
as they gather in the fallen grain,
the blackbirds sing it
over their shoulders in parting,
and gold leaf illuminates the manuscript
where it is written in the trees.

Transcribed onto my human tongue
I believe it might sound like a lullaby,
or the simplest grace at table.
Across the gathering stillness
simply this: "For all that we have received,
dear God, make us truly grateful."

Lynn Ungar
(from Blessing the Bread)

Happy Thanksgiving to each and every one of you!

Wordless Wednesday - From the Window

2011-11-23T07:46:00.000-05:00

Elemental Conversations

2011-11-22T06:13:00.099-05:00

Every once in a while, there comes a perfect blue day dusted with wisps of high drifting cloud like cotton. It is cold out here, but if she is warmly dressed and out of the wind, one can almost believe it is summer for a moment or two.

Then the wind asserts its primacy and goes rampaging across the tin roof, making the lightening rods on its summit shiver and sway. It comes in at doors and windows without invitation, and it moans through every crack in the weathered barn walls. One suddenly remembers it is November.

The barn has been standing since the 1800s though, and she is not fazed by late autumn and early winter blusterings. Her foundations are local granite, and her bones are cedar timbers several feet in diameter. Snug and firm on her Lanark hill, she patiently watches the clouds roll by, conversing with the impetuous wind in all its madcap oscillating moods and fancies. I wonder what they are saying.

Frosted Garden Splendor

2011-11-21T07:14:00.000-05:00

This Bosky Morning

2011-11-20T07:40:00.002-05:00

Skies are leaden, and fog wraps the village this morning. This is one of those liminal November days when the village is poised on a cusp and cannot decide whether it dwells in late autumn or the land of early winter.

One can say simply that the day is dark and sunless, but there are some wonderful synonyms about: bosky, caliginous, cloudy, crepuscular, dark, dim, drab, dusky, gloomy, murky, nebulous, obfuscous, obscure, opaque, overcast, shadowy, somber, stygian, sunless, tenebrous, twilight, umbral, vague, wintry.

What to do today? There is no light to speak of, and so it is not a morning for wandering with the camera. When Spencer and I went out a few minutes ago, a cold raw wind teased the backs of our necks, and the matter of a longer morning walk was put aside for now.

Inside, there is morning coffee and a cinnamon stick, a favorite cup and saucer in a fetching shade of celadon green that is lush and soothing and tender, the latest issue of Artful Blogging, the third Brandenburg concerto on the CD player, a box of art pens in Mediterranean shades to play with. There will be currant scones later in the day, and for dinner this evening something fragrant and spicy that sings and dances on the tongue and palate. There is room at the old oak table for all, and enough cups to go around too. On days like this, one simply does whatever she can do to light things up.

Late Autumn's Golden Showing

2011-11-19T08:44:00.000-05:00

There are always a few trees in the woods which hold their turning in abeyance until late November. One of my favorite old sugar maples always puts on a magnificent golden performance, and I visit her around this time every year to marvel at her one woman showing and say "thanks".

Mother Earth (the Old Wild Mother or Gaia) is the greatest artist of them all, and I would be "over the moon" if I could create something even the smallest scrip as grand and elemental and graceful as my tree is making in her grove - every curve and branch and burnished dancing leaf is a wonder.

Writing this, I remembered that as well as being an archaic word for a scrap or fraction of something, scrip also describes a small wallet or pouch once carried by pilgrims and seekers. That seems fitting for this journey into the woods and my breathless standing under the maple in all her glory.

Friday Ramble - Comfort

2011-11-18T06:31:00.011-05:00

According to one of my many dictionaries, to comfort means to soothe in time of affliction, to ease physically or relieve. In its noun form, the word describes a condition or feeling of pleasurable ease, well-being and contentment, solace in times of grief or fear, help or assistance. A comforter is someone who brings such assistance or ease, although these days, we usually use the word to describe a quilted bed cover of some kind - grand things to have on one's bed on cold winter nights.

Comfort comes from the Middle English word comforten, meaning to make strong, which in turn comes from the Old French verb conforter, meaning to strengthen. Both forms probably have their origins in a Latin expression consisting of com (a prefix conveying intensity) and fortis which means strong.

Notions of comfort have at their very core the idea of being strengthened, soothed and calmed, and the strength involved is not brawn or brute force, but vitality, courage and fortitude. I've always found it interesting that one of the synonyms for strength in my tattered old thesaurus is connection. It made me think of something penned by Clarissa Pinkola Estes: "We are strong when we stand with another soul. When we stand with one another, we cannot be broken."

Family and community go right at the top of the list when it comes to comfort, but there is strength and solace in a multitude of different activities, objects and places (especially liminal places). Several come to mind, and mirabile dictu, they can be revisited anywhere and any time in their radiant stillness: a frothy cappuccino served up at my favorite coffee shop, the village on a foggy morning in November with warmly dressed villagers and bare trees appearing out of the mist like magic and then disappearing again; the first snowfall of the season; a fire in the old fireplace made with apple wood; a good book; my favorite teapot and a freshly brewed pot of chai; the Two Hundred Acre Wood in Lanark and rambles among the old trees there (with Himself and Spencer). Then there is an incredibly beautiful view from the side of a road out in the Lanark Highlands, one looking out over endless rolling pine clad ridges and shadowed valleys - that view never fails to nourish and enchant, and I revisit it often in my thoughts. All convey comfort, peace of mind and elemental grace in a world which often seems to be barking mad and totally out of balance.

One takes one's comfort where she finds it at this time of the year. This morning's essay started out to be a short one on balance, but I was comforted, first by a sunny cup of cappuccino, then by the latest issue of Parabola. The theme of the winter issue is "Many Paths, One Truth", and the writing is (as always) thoughtful and engaging. November days are short and dark for the most part, but individual hours sparkle now and then, and sometimes they sing like birds.

Thursday Poem - Praise Song

2011-11-17T06:27:00.002-05:00

Praise the light of late November,

the thin sunlight that goes deep in the bones.

Praise the crows chattering in the oak trees;

though they are clothed in night, they do not

despair. Praise what little there's left:

the small boats of milkweed pods, husks, hulls,

shells, the architecture of trees. Praise the meadow

of dried weeds: yarrow, goldenrod, chicory,

the remains of summer. Praise the blue sky

that hasn't cracked. Praise the sun slipping down

behind the beechnuts, praise the quilt of leaves

that covers the grass: Scarlet Oak, Sweet Gum,

Sugar Maple. Though darkness gathers, praise our crazy

fallen world; it's all we have, and it's never enough.

Barbara Crooker, from Radiance

Wordless Wednesday - Dew Holding the Sky

2011-11-16T07:32:00.000-05:00

Flowing Ever Onward

2011-11-15T08:14:00.000-05:00

Many many thanks for the kind notes after last week's post about the sixth anniversary of this little chunk of planet blog. It is a fine thing to be here among so many friends and kindred spirits - many deep gasshos (bows) for being here and along on this journey with Himself, Spencer and I and the gentle recording eye of the Pentax.

Perhaps such occasions should be marked by something special, a photograph, a painting, a cairn of stones heaped up somewhere in the wilds, a batch of scones, a pot of tea, a brand new right-out-of the box beeswax pillar candle, lighted and sending its radiance and and honey fragrance into the world. The best thing of all is what I did do - go out to the woods and just sit on a rock for an hour or two.

Impromptu zazen sessions in wild places are always good medicine. One can watch the great wide world in transcendent flowing movement, listen to the wind singing through the bare trees and water dancing its way along in the creek, feel the earth breathing deep and slow underneath the fallen leaves. One can send her roots down into the good dark earth, harmonize her own breathing with the Old Wild Mother's and get back in tune with the elements, returning home later to go along as she has so far, but rested, easy of heart, quieter and at peace.

No matter how I am feeling when I set out on another wild ramble, I always come back feeling refreshed and renewed, as bright and shiny as a brand new copper penny. Billy Collins captured the feeling beautifully.

The best time is late afternoon
when the sun strobes through
the columns of trees as you are hiking up,
and when you find an agreeable rock
to sit on, you will be able to see
the light pouring down into the woods
and breaking into the shapes and tones
of things and you will hear nothing
but a sprig of birdsong or the leafy
falling of a cone or nut through the trees,
and if this is your day you might even
spot a hare or feel the wing-beats of geese
driving overhead toward some destination.

But it is hard to speak of these things
how the voices of light enter the body
and begin to recite their stories
how the earth holds us painfully against
its breast made of humus and brambles
how we who will soon be gone regard
the entities that continue to return
greener than ever, spring water flowing
through a meadow and the shadows of clouds
passing over the hills and the ground
where we stand in the tremble of thought
taking the vast outside into ourselves.

Billy Collins
(From Directions in The Art of Drowning)

Monday Morning Comfort

2011-11-14T07:31:00.000-05:00

Later in the season, the morning treat is likely to be a slice of the the old family recipe fruitcake, brimming with currants, raisins, citron, almonds and apricots and tenderly aged in good dark rum or brandy.

With grey skies beyond the window this morning and snow in the offing, there are lovely gluten free Florentines to go with our dark roast coffee.

Lovingly robed in chocolate, the almost indecently sumptuous cookies melt on the tongue like snowflakes, and their Old World richness lingers like a blessing or a poem. One can almost forget about the snow.

Standing In the Sea of Light

2011-11-13T08:10:00.002-05:00

We live in a sea of light.

Henry Plummer

What you are looking for is the perfect sunrise or sunset, one that catches you by the throat, leaves you wide-eyed and breathless, tosses you up in the clouds and down again, wraps you all up in wonder and elemental grace, if only for a moment.

One loses count of the mornings and evenings spent in wild places, always looking for that perfect Helios moment and trying to capture it on film or her memory card. Whatever else she forgets (and she forgets so much these days), sunrises and sunsets have a lovely way of lingering, and thus they can be revisited over and over again.

I look back and remember the light, how it filtered through the clouds on a fine summer evening or made the sand sparkle on an early winter morning, how it lovingly touched a weathered and forgotten Adirondack chair on the beach, painted a fey and shining highway across the water from here to there. At such times, I am on the beach again with sand and waves under my wandering feet, and the distance between now and then, between these earthly shores and those beyond the fields we know seems like just a few steps. How wondrous and fleeting it all is. . .

Fluttering through the photo archive is something else again, and it gives rise to other feelings - so many years of wandering around with a camera looking for the light and nary an adequate visual representation for all my impassioned ramblings and mutterings. The sunrises and sunsets are perfect within themselves. The artist has a lot of work to do on herself and her technique - perhaps one of these lifetimes she will get it right.

Ribbons and Tatters

2011-11-12T05:51:00.020-05:00

Paper Birch (Betula papyrifera)

and Blue Sky

The All Gathered Moon of November

2011-11-11T08:16:00.001-05:00

November's full lunar orb is usually the the second last moon of the calender year, and certainly a colder moon than October's golden visitation was. As is often the case at this time of year, I briefly considered staying indoors but wrapped up anyway, and Spencer and I went out to the garden with tripod and camera. Lady Moon was concealed behind clouds for the most part, and for a while we wondered if she would hide her radiant face completely this time around or part the veil for a while and pour her light over us. At last, there she was in all her radiance...

Spencer is accustomed to his mother's lunar studies now, and he leaned comfortably against me and looked up at the sky last night, content to be there and certain that whatever we were doing out there in the darkness, it was worth doing.

The old tree which has held the rising full moon in its arms every month for so many years was no longer there with us last evening. Having expired and gone to its leafy reward long ago, it was felled and taken away yesterday, every branch and twig of it. Standing in the darkness, we remembered the old tree, and we thought of the beloved friend and journeying companion who departed this life and "went on ahead" last week. This November's moon is about loss, but it is about trust too, trust in each other and those we love, trust in the wild and elemental grace of existence and what I like to call "the great round" of our days and nights.

We also know this moon as the: Blood Moon, Buffalo Moon, Cold Begins Moon, Dark Moon, Deer Rutting Moon, Twelfth Moon, Falling Leaves Moon, Fog Moon, Freezing Moon, Frosty Moon, Geese Going Moon, Hunter's Moon, Large Tree Freeze Moon, Little Bear's Moon, Long Moon, Mad Moon, Moon of Cold, Moon of Fledgling Hawk, Moon of Freezing, Moon of Storms, Moon of the Falling Leaves, Moon of the Shaker Leaves, Moon of the Turkey and Feast, Moon the Rivers Begin to Freeze, Moon When All Is Gathered in, Moon When Deer Shed Antlers, Moon When Deer Shed Their Antlers, Moon When Horns Are Broken Off, Moon When the River Freezes, Moon When the Rivers Start to Freeze, Moon When the Water Is Black with Leaves, Mourning Moon, Moon of Much Poverty, Ring Finger Moon, Sacrifice Moon, Samoni Moon, Sassafras Moon, Snow Moon, Snowy Mountains in the Morning Moon, Trading Moon, Trail Moon, Tree Moon, White Frost on Grass & Ground Moon, White Moon, Whitefish Moon, Willow Moon, Winter Divided Moon, Yew Moon.

Among the many names for this month's moon, I am rather fond of Yew Moon and Moon of Falling Leaves, but for me, this will always be Christel's Moon.

Thursday Poem - Unchurched

2011-11-10T07:06:00.000-05:00

It’s Earth that breathes around us,
so perilous in its comforts,
so perfect in impermanence.

Autumnal sun streams through
these yellow maple leaves
translucent as stained glass.

The ground beneath my feet
is strewn with pine cones, acorns.
The random pattern of continuance.

Etched columns of pine and oak.
Incense of resin and fungi.
Great glacial stones for altars.

High winds and choirs of
minor breezes, the whispering hush.
It is the Sabbath. It is enough.

Dolores Stewart
from The Nature of Things
(printed here with the kind permission of the author)

Dolores Stewart is one of the finest and most thoughtful poets writing today, and her second collection of poems, The Nature of Things was recently published by Bellowing Ark Press. Every offering in the volume is a treasure - it was difficult to choose a single poem from it for this week's selection.

Wordless Wednesday - Tree Light

2011-11-09T06:06:00.000-05:00

Adrift On Inland Seas

2011-11-08T07:12:00.003-05:00

For the late Zen master and renowned photographer, John Daido Loori, I suspect it was tide pools, beaches and heron spiced estuaries - they drew him like a magnet to faraway shorelines, carrying camera, tripod, lenses and diverse pockets of related peripherals. He loved the shapes and the colors, the contrasts where the sea meets the land, and he could stand for hours, watching the play of wind across waves and rock, rippled sand and tide pools, forests of seawashed kelp.

Not for me, at present anyway, the pacific bays and beaches near Point Lobos that Daido loved so much, the fog wrapped headlands and promontories graced by weathered stones. I've been there and loved those places, have photographed them and recall them at the drop of a frayed hat or the sway of my favorite windbells, but I live inland now and far from the earth's greater oceans. Far from Daido's salty shorelines though, I have eloquent expanses of my own, inland seas of foothills, gorges and quiet grassy coves, winding rivers and gnarled old trees, morning fogs, flowing frosty fens and dancing reeds.

Inland seas sing like the sirens of old, holding beauties beyond measure in every season. In November there are deep lake waters fringed with frosted grasses and tamarack reflections. There are wide hills and fields of blowing milkweed as far as one can see, entrancing the eye in sere and austere arrays, in perfect panoplies of cream and taupe and gray.This season draws one in like a magnet, and I dissolve in its midst like a contented and wind tossed leaf.

Thank you all so much for your kind words and wishes yesterday on the sixth anniversary of this place! It is a joy to consider us all pottering along together for another circling of the calendar in the Great Round of time.

Barn and Late Turning Maple

2011-11-07T06:38:00.000-05:00

Of Fogs and Blogs

2011-11-06T06:24:00.001-05:00

We are usually out before sunrise, Himself and Spencer and I, wandering among the wooded hills, or sometimes by the lake as early November fog wraps itself around us in billows and swirls and nebulous clouds. Spencer potters along in his own happy nosy German Shorthair fashion, seeking interesting smells and wild creatures to point, reflecting happily on his life with us and thinking about fine rambles in the woods in Lanark when the hunting season has gone the way of all good and earthly things in a few weeks' time.

And me??? At some time in the wee hours of this morning, Daylight Saving Time became a thing of the past, and time danced backward an hour in the little blue house in the village. This is also an anniversary of sorts for it marks six whole years of blogging at Beyond the Fields We Know - six years of logging on here in the morning, posting bad photos and muttering along for a few paragraphs. An astonishing state of affairs, and the thought boggles the old mind. . . I still can't quite come to terms with my sass and brass and temerity in setting this e-journal up in the first place, let alone doing the blogging thing faithfully for six years in a row. When I go back and look at some of my earlier efforts here, I am appalled, simply appalled.

This is a diary of sorts; these are my morning or artist's pages, and so they shall remain. I am not contemplating any significant changes to this little corner of the blogging planet during the coming year, and I expect life will simply go along as it has so far. Apprentices of wonder, we will all continue to meander along at our own pace, watching morning fogs enfold the village, bare trees swaying against the sky, oak leaves raining dew like honey in the park, old Helios going down like a great ball of fire over Dalhousie Lake at the edge of the year. We are enfolded in the Great Round of time, and the small adventures of our journeying will continue to make their way here and spill out out on the computer screen a few hours after sunrise.

Darling departed Cassie is always with us on our wanderings; we can hear her soft breathing and feel her dancing along beside us, but her happy feet make no sound in the fallen leaves on the trail. The four of us are a tribe, and we belong together. The words that came to mind as we all pottered along in the fog together yesterday were those of the incandescently gifted Mary Oliver.

The years to come—this is a promise—
will grant you ample time

to try the difficult steps in the empire of thought
where you seek for the shining proofs you think you must have.

But nothing you ever understand will be sweeter, or more binding,
than this deep affinity between your eyes and the world.

Mary Oliver, Excerpt from Terns

Thank you for journeying along here with me. You are more precious and wonderful than you can ever know.

By November's Icy Fingers Touched

2011-11-05T07:17:00.000-04:00

Friday Ramble - Standing on the Edge

2011-11-04T07:10:00.005-04:00

A strange, liminal time of the year is this, for the old Celtic year has passed away, and we stand on the forward edge of a brand new year, in the north a chilling contraption of fallen leaves and frozen earth, short days, darkness, frost and and wind.

The word edge has been around forever, dating at the very latest from the tenth century. We have it through the Middle English egge, the Old English ecg and the Old Germanic ecke, all meaning "corner". It is kin to the Latin acer meaning "sharp", and the Greek akmē meaning "point", and at the root of all these forms is the Proto-Indo-European (PIE) ak- meaning "sharp".

The storm tossed highlands seem empty in November. Migratory birds have (for the most part) departed for warmer climes. Most of our wild and furry "year round" residents are in deep hibernation now; the fertile earth and her life giving waters are freezing up, even as we watch with our collars turned up.

On trips into the woods, long shadows fall across our trail, and their edges are as sharp as the finest craftings of the blade smith's art. For all the early winter emptiness, frost and morning sunlight change the Two Hundred Acre Wood into something rich and elegant and inviting: glittering fronds artfully curved and waving in the fields, milkweed sculpted into pleasing shapes, bare trees twinkling like stars, the edges of blackberry leaves rosy and sparkling with frost crystals.

November always seems chthonic to me. That engaging word with its bewildering arrangement of vowels and consonants springs from the Greek khthonios, meaning "of the earth", and it's usually employed in describing subterranean matters and deities of the underworld. When we use chthonic to describe something, we are focusing on what is deeper or within, rather than that which is apparent at first glance or resting on the surface. Implicit in the adjective are notions of rest, sleep, fertility and rebirth - mortality and abundance coexisting and enfolding each other in a deep embrace.

A dearly loved friend passed beyond the fields we know a few days ago, and thoughts of mortality and abundance have been much with me this week. Christel was my adopted big sister, and she was one of the wisest and strongest women I have ever known. Hers was an open heart - she walked through this world loving it fiercely, appreciating its grandeur, grace and reciprocity, cherishing its innate abundance and wildness. Lit from within, she fairly blazed with life and passion, and she lighted up every room she entered. Somewhere beyond the here and the now, she is still alight, and I have to remember that.

Grieving, I find myself restless and unable to settle anywhere for long, rising before dawn and going outside to watch the early stars, piling up books on the old oak library table and then forgetting about them, brewing endless pots of tea and letting them go cold, staring out the window for hours at a time or standing silently at the edge of the woods. I am grateful for having known and loved and walked through this world with my big sister, but there's a hole in my heart and the wind is blowing through it.

Thursday Poem - Frost in the Highlands

2011-11-03T09:18:00.003-04:00

A crunching frost last evening in the highlands,
the lambent moon high above the old trees,
the aurora borealis dancing over the hill.
A sweet embracing darkness holds the earth,
November stillness flowing like a shadow
down the trail below the oak trees at twilight.

Winter stirs among the shortening days,
whispering of cold and icy moons to come
in the rattling dry breath of the long nights.
These elderly bones move creaking through
landscapes of bare trees and rail fences,
sparkling leaves and grasses, fallen twigs.

Patterns everywhere, and not of my making,
but the Old Wild Mother's weaving, marbled
stones, hoary branches and mottled foliage,
footprints of wolf and deer along the trail,
puddles in the wooded hollows rimed with ice,
shreds of tattered birch bark blowing free.

There are ghost scents on the wind this evening
of fresh turned earth and summer fields,
there are echoes of the wild geese going south,
the old cedar fence creaking as I leaned on it
at dusk one night last year in balmy June.
If I listen, I can hear the stream away in its gorge.
Rest now sister, it tells me in its hollow voice.
Rest you now, for all things turn in time, and we,
like the seasons, must await the time of our tuning.

kerrdelune

Wordless Wednesday - In the Wind

2011-11-02T04:11:00.001-04:00

Falling Into the Fund of Things

2011-11-01T08:09:00.005-04:00

Sunflowers are impressive entities in summer, when one can watch the statuesque and spirited youngsters turning their brilliant heads to follow the sun around the sky all day long. Young ones are flexible enough to follow the sun, and they do just that - mature flower heads face east toward the rising sun for the most part and do not move.

What we think of as a single sunflower bloom is actually a composite, a collection of over a thousand tiny florets or flowers arranged in a perfect spiraling sequence. Each floret is inclined toward the next floret by approximately 137.5°, known in mathematics as the golden angle. The arrangement creates a series of interconnecting spirals in which the number of left oriented spirals and the number of right oriented spirals are successive Fibonacci numbers.

A fan of golden angles and Fibonacci sequences for years, I am always happy to discover another one and seeing a sunflower in any season is a happy thing. In these short, dark November days, withered specimens of Helianthus annuus are downright wondrous in their delicate earthy coloration, their spikiness and sculptural complexity, their stalwart determination to engender progeny and perpetuate their genetic matter, mothering whole dynasties of mile-high stalks, fuzzy leaves and beaming golden faces when springtime rolls around next time.

In his fine poem, "Enriching the Earth", Wendell Berry describes the earth's late autumn cycling as "slowly falling into the fund of things", and I have deep fondness for the notion. Going to seed in this last quarter of the year is a good thing, a fine thing, a natural and necessary thing. Alas, I lack the delicate coloration, complexity and elegance of form displayed by sunflowers peering over the fence and dispersing their abundant seed in November. If I can be said to resemble anything at all these days, it's a gnarled and twisty old ironwood tree in the forest. Gorgeous things they are in their own way, and though I have no beauty of my own, I am happy to stand among them out in the leaf strewn wood.

Happy November everyone!

For Things That Go Bump in the Night

2011-10-31T06:11:00.000-04:00

Winter approaches with its chill breath. The harvest has been gathered, granaries and hay barns are full, and farm animals have been tucked into their barns for the long winter. Days are becoming shorter, and nights seem to last forever.

Native Americans call this the time of the Long Nights. Daylight is paler and more slanted, but these last October days have a translucent beauty of their very own. Foliage has already turned color, and the brisk winds of autumn are scouring the hills and sweeping away the fallen leaves. Animals of field and forest are filling their pantries and preparing their burrows for winter. The air is spicy and carries the promise of cold days to come.

Halloween or “Samhain”, as the ancient Celts called it, means simply “summer's end”. According to the old Celtic two-fold division of the year, summer was the interval from Beltane (May 1) to Samhain (October 31), and winter the interval between Samhain and Beltane. This is (along with Beltane of course), is one of the most important days on the Wheel of the Year. The old Celtic year ends today, and a new one begins as the sun is setting.

To the ancient Celts, time was cyclical and their cross quarter observances represented pivotal cosmic points beyond time, intervals when the natural universal order dissolved back into primordial chaos before regenerating itself. Thus, Samhain or Halloween night is a magical night beyond the confines of time, and one may, if she or he possesses such gifts, be able to view other points in time using tarot cards, runes or tea leaves.

Two themes are intertwined, divining the future and honoring the departed members of one's tribe or clan. It was once believed that the hallowed dead returned to the land of the living on October 31 to feast with their clans and family members. The great burial mounds of Ireland (sidh mounds) were opened up and lighted by torches so that the departed could find their way home again. Extra places were set at family tables and chairs placed near the hearth, food and drink put out for those who had passed beyond the fields we know. Old stories tell of Irish heroes making daring raids on the Underworld as the gates of Faery stood open on this night, but both the living and dead had to return to their appointed realms and stations by cock-crow or sunrise.

This is the most magical night in the whole turning year, one full of jack-o-lanterns, costumes, scarecrows, trick or treating, goblins, ghost stories, divination and scrying. Wise to remember though that this is also a night of great power and one when the veil which separates our world from the spirit world is gossamer thin. . . Strange creatures are abroad on this night, and uncanny events may befall us if we are not both prudent and cautious.

As I dole out candy to little goblins on my threshold this evening, I shall be reflecting on the past year and tucking it gently away. I shall be entertaining good thoughts about the future too, remembering that death is a natural part of earthly existence and not be feared - whether it be physical, the end of a trend or pattern, emotional closure, or merely the settling of issues which need to be laid to rest. Life is a continuous cycle of death and rebirth, and Halloween (or Samhain) accepts and celebrates this magnificent never-ending cosmic cycle.

Blessing to you and yours on this day. May your jack-o-lanterns glow brightly this evening, and may there be many small guests on your threshold. May your home be a place of warmth and light, and your hearth be protected from things which go bump in the night.

Happy Samhain and Happy Halloween, and Happy New Year too!

Under the Halloween Moon

2011-10-30T08:36:00.007-04:00

Sing a song of Halloween, jack-o-lanterns everywhere,
Bats and brooms and witches, flitting through the air.
Spirits and ghosties rising, by moon and crooked tree,
Brightest blessings are flying out to you from me.

Come one, come all! It's the annual Witches Tea Party Under a Halloween Moon, hosted by the beautiful Frosted Petunia and moving merrily by broomstick, bicycle, horse and buggy or other conveyance from house to house this weekend.

There's a jack-o-lantern on the veranda, and a lovely fire going in the fireplace here, pots and pots of tea, vast urns of coffee and other fine potions. The old oak banquet table holds glossy candied apples, tray upon tray of chocolates, plates of cunningly iced moon cookies and journey cakes. Bagpipes, fiddles and harps are being tuned as I write this, and the dancing is about to begin.

Join us by the fire and celebrate glorious technicolor October in all its vibrant hues, spice and fragrance. Sing us a spell, weave us a spell or two, tell us your stories. When you've warmed yourself by the fire, imbibed a few noggins, consumed a few journey cakes and danced a few jigs, other fine witchy tea parties await you this weekend.

Just Ducky in Early Twilight

2011-10-29T08:09:00.000-04:00

Male and Female Mallard

Rideau River, October 27, 2011

Friday Ramble - Frost

2011-10-28T09:24:00.000-04:00

Frost is another one of those words which seems to have been around forever, coming to us from close Middle and Old English forms meaning "freezing, becoming frozen or extreme cold". The present noun form is cognate with Old Saxon, High German and Norse words claiming the same ancestral roots. Then there are the Proto Germanic frusta and Old High German vorst, both related to the old verb freosan meaning "to freeze". Somewhere back there are Old Saxon, Frisian and Dutch kindred, and at the root of it all, the PIE (Proto-Indo-European language) preus which seems to have described processes of both freezing and burning.

Recent studies predicate that PIE has been around since at least 3700 BCE, long before the common era, and probably much earlier than that. When I think about such things, I am wrapped anew in reverence for words and language and the commonalities of earthly existence right back to the beginning times.

There is a beautiful day rising out there beyond the windows, morning skies in multitudinous shades of lavender, purple and gold, the sun coming up behind the ash trees in the garden, geese winging overhead out to stubbly fields to feed. The air is filled with their songs and exuberance on this cold morning near the end of October.

There was a heavy frost here last night, and its lacy scraps can still be seen on the cobblestones and roof tiles of the village. Dauntless Virginia creeper vines in the hedgerows seem to be undeterred by the night's plummeting temperatures, but they're turning red, violet and burgundy, and they look as though their jaunty stance is darned hard work.

The leaves of the wild roses in our hedgerow were clad in frost this morning, each and every crystal clearly defined and sparkling like a gem in the early light. Blue sky, silver and platinum frost crystals, russet and gold rose leaves dancing in the wind - who says there is no color about in late autumn? One has only to look, and the best time for looking is just as the sun is rising over the bare trees.

Poetry Thursday Poem - Some October

2011-10-27T06:56:00.001-04:00

Some October, when the leaves turn gold, ask
me if I've done enough to deserve this life
I've been given. A pile of sorrows, yes, but joy
enough to unbalance the equation.

When the sky turns blue as the robes of heaven,
ask me if I've made a difference.
The road winds through the copper-colored woods;
no one sees around the bend.

Today, the wind poured out of Canada,
a river in flood, bringing down the brilliant leaves,
broken sticks and twigs, deserted nests.
Go where the current takes you.

Some twilight, when the clouds stream in from the west
like the breath of God, ask me again.

Barbara Crooker
Originally published in Borderlands:
The Texas Poetry Review

Wordless Wednesday - Fallen

2011-10-26T07:13:00.000-04:00

Views From Here

2011-10-25T08:29:00.000-04:00

Looking down to the beaver pond, only a few feet deep at this time of year...

Paddock, flock and the trail through the old orchard down to the pond...

Ewe and early morning nibbling...

Small and Hopeful Things

2011-10-24T07:23:00.003-04:00

How do they do it, I wonder. . . There is brilliant warming sunlight now and then, but October days are gray and chilly for the most part, and nights are cold.

The north wind sweeps through the village touching everything with its icy fingers, and yet roses continue to bloom and paint our garden with their delicately tinted complexions. The place feels like a monastery enclosure, even in late autumn.

October's roses are not (of course) as large or as fragrant as their summer sisters, but the small and hopeful forms are flawless in their own natural way, and they are potent reminders that there is wild and elemental grace in every season.

Mannas of Dew and Light

2011-10-23T06:58:00.001-04:00

There are questions I ask myself on stained glass October mornings when the skies are clear.

Have there ever been trees as golden as these, as expressive in their flowing seasonal movement? Have there ever been skies as blue, any old where or any old time? Has there ever been another morning as perfect as this one in the story of the world? Could I survive without the changing of the seasons one into another, over and over again?

We stand on the ridge among wind tossed drowsy trees, sending our own roots down into the good dark Lanark earth, arms like branches upraised in sheer dancing jubilation and our hands cupped to hold mannas of dew and light - a lovely word to be sure is jubilation. One can see the sun through every persevering leaf in the overstory.

When we arrive home, I upload photo after photo and, wonder of wonders, I seem to have captured the wind in its own madcap choreography.

Dewy

2011-10-22T07:52:00.000-04:00

Friday Ramble - Fleeting

2011-10-21T06:19:00.017-04:00

The word comes to us through the Middle English flete and Old English flēot, both derivatives of flēotan, meaning to float. In common usage, fleeting used to describe that which is momentary, which exists for a brief time and passes swiftly, often vanishing in the twinkling of an eye. Various synonyms for fleeting are some of my favorite words ever - cursory, ephemeral, evanescent, fugacious, fugitive, impermanent, meteoric, momentary, passing, transitory, vanishing, volatile, deciduous, diaphanous, elusive, ephemerous, ethereal, gossamer, temporal, transient, transitory, vanishing, vaporous, volatile.

Himself, Spencer and I went for a long walk in the Two Hundred Acre Wood a few days ago, and we made our slow meandering journey through dry windy sunlit woods that seemed to go on forever, across rocky slopes, through groves of whiskery trees, rustling drifts of golden leaves everywhere underfoot. The heavy winds of recent days have brought many of the leaves in our woods tumbling down, and the Two Hundred Acre Wood is a different place entirely than it was only a few weeks ago.

A hollow wind careens through the gorges scattering leaves, pebbles, acorns and pods in all directions.The great oaks on the brow of the western hill are almost the only entities in the woodland still bearing leaves, and the tamaracks nearby are turning lacy gold. Fields of goldenrod and milkweed have gone to seed, and their withered stalks stand watching our progress like armies of silent observers committing the season to wild memory. I take my trusty blackthorn walking stick along on our autumn rambles, and it makes a pleasant racket scuffling through the Old Wild Mother's fallen bounty.

On such afternoons, we lean against an old tree and bask in the light slanting through the bare woodland, and there is a clear sense that all is fragile and fleeting and precious. It seems like only yesterday that we were rejoicing in the filtered emerald light of springtime and contemplating our unruly rural garden. Now here we are in the autumn woods, seeing all around us the clear cold evidence that a deep northern winter is on its way.

The passage of the seasons is a potent reminder that we exist for only a brief time in the Great Round, here for but a handful of days, but lit from within as we go walking through this world. We blaze with life and spirit and throw off sparks, and perhaps that is not surprising given our origins. Life is a glorious fleeting thing, and autumn says that best.