Raucous Beginnings

My early companions, in all their cocky splendour as they convene in the old maple, greet the morning light, exchange bawdy jokes and owl taunting tales, plot byzantine shenanigans for the day and puckishly tug me into a degree of consciousness which is questionnable B.C. (before coffee). This morning, they were even more garrulous than they were yesterday, and they are definitely looking forward to spring.

I've never been able to work up any enthusiasm for the expression "a murder of crows" (any more than I can for the expression "an unkindness of ravens"), so this assemblage is a flock, but what a jocular bunch of trickster birds they are at the crack of dawn.

If crow is the archetypal trickster character in ancient tales, it is for very good reasons, and whenever I see a confabulation of these black birds dancing about in the old corner maple, the image which always comes to mind is one of a band of merry pranksters - no relation to Ken Kesey and his lightly tripping travelling companions though.

I've often thought that the right expression for my friends would be "a comedy of crows" or a "prankful of crows", and on a fine clear blue morning such as this, either expression will do nicely. There are many other wonderful words for prank which would also suit: antic, caper, caprice, escapade, fancy, fool, frivolity, frolic, gag, gambol, high jinks, horseplay (crowplay), lark, levity, lightness, monkeyshines (crowshines), rollick, rowdiness, shenanigans, skylark, spoof, tomfoolery, trick, whim.

A caper of crows perhaps, a frolic of crows, a rollick of crows, a rowdy of crows or a caprice of crows?

The View From Here

The view from the very top of the Two Hundred Acre Wood on an icy blue morning in late February. One can't tell it from this vista of snow, fog and cloud, but there is a whole realm down there and out there, pines, cedars and rocky rolling ridges stretching away into the distance.

It isn't nearly as high up as it seems in this photo, but when I am up here, it always feels as though I am on the roof of the planet and precariously perched on the summit of Chomolungma (Everest), Goddess Mother of the World. If I close my eyes for just a moment, I can feel the Old Wild Mother standing here beside me and feel Her breathing softly into the icy blue air. Miyo Lungsangma, as she is lovingly known by the clans of the Himalayas, is a fine companion for these rambles at the cusp of the seasons.

At the Feeder

His (or hers) is the song that sustains me on these late blue winter days. Occasionally there is the liquid trilling chant of a cardinal over the hills and somewhere far away, but (alas) our resident Cooper's hawk has returned to the garden and taken up residence in the big spruce tree - our more colourful guests are staying hidden among the evergreens and not taking any chances..

Last night, I dreamed of wild orchids, apple blossoms, grosbeaks and geese.

Mama Says Om - Shoes

If you had inquired about my taste in shoes forty years ago, I probably would have professed cheerfully to a passion for high heels, pointed toes, teetering platforms and strange colours and textures. Although I like watching the fancy footwear of others in the village, I now marvel at how many of the wearers manage to get from one place to another in winter without falling and concussing themselves.

These days, I opt for comfort and function, and there are days when that means going barefoot and wearing no shoes at all, but I love my "wellies", and my funky red suede runners always make me feel happy from head to toe, if I must wear shoes. I would love to find a purple suede pair just like them, or perhaps like the violent lavender and emerald green Saucony runners I had to throw out last year. I would also like to acquire a pair of bright red "cowboy type" mules like Karina's. Purple and red together would be lovely, but that is a lot to ask for in shoes n'est-ce pas?

Written for the wise and hip mamas at Mama Says Om. May there be many funky red and purple runners in their future.

Thursday Poem - Getting There

You take a final step and, look, suddenly
You're there. You've arrived
At the one place all your drudgery was aimed for:
This common ground
Where you stretch out, pressing your cheek to sandstone.

What did you want
To be? You'll remember soon. You feel like tinder
Under a burning glass,
A luminous point of change. The sky is pulsing
Against the cracked horizon,
Holding it firm till the arrival of stars
In time with your heartbeats.
Like wind etching rock, you've made a lasting impression
On the self you were
By having come all this way through all this welter
Under your own power,
Though your traces on a map would make an unpromising
Meandering lifeline.

What have you learned so far? You'll find out later,
Telling it haltingly
Like a dream, that lost traveler's dream
Under the last hill
Where through the night you'll take your time out of mind
To unburden yourself
Of elements along elementary paths
By the break of morning.

You've earned this worn-down, hard, incredible sight
Called Here and Now.
Now, what you make of it means everything,
Means starting over:
The life in your hands is neither here nor there
But getting there,
So you're standing again and breathing, beginning another
Journey without regret
Forever, being your own unpeaceable kingdom,
The end of endings.

David Wagoner, Getting There

Sunnier Thoughts

It's one of those fine sunny late February mornings when one feels that warmer times are just over the hill and cavorting behind the trees. There are clear blue skies beyond the windows and legions of happy crows dancing about in my neighbour's yard and cackling uproariously at their own jokes. A single male cardinal is singing a spring song in the park, but he is too far away to capture on a memory card, even with the best telephoto lens. I can hear his jubilant song clearly though, and I can see his splash of brilliant red at the top of an oak tree one street away.

This morning, I can sense springtime in my old bones and sinews and feel light and warmth returning. The morning sun is shining like butterscotch through the leaves of the house plants in the south facing dining room, and out in the garden, a light breeze is moving the elegantly curled leaves of the beech tree about with enthusiasm. It is probably just my imagination, but in the last day or two, last year's leaves seem to have rediscovered a small measure of their former colour and personality, and there are miniscule rosy buds on many of the shrubs in the garden. Hallelujah. . . .

Glossy Ice (Haiga)

Good Company

At one point in my slow pottering through the icy Lanark woods yesterday morning, there was a handful of chickadees sitting on each shoulder, and a downy fellow was perched on my hat. The little "downy" seemed to think that I was a tree of some kind, but didn't peck me - he just sat contentedly with his tiny talons planted firmly in the thick wool of my toque and hitched a warm ride up the trail to the bird feeders and the suet.

Perhaps I am evolving into a tree, and if so what sort of tree am I becoming? Am I turning into an ash, a cherry, a walnut, a weeping willow, a maple, a satiny beech, a whiskery hornbeam, a hemlock, a boreal pine or a great oak?

Lanark Hills in Blue

Nothing I could say here can ever convey how still and blue and quiet the snowy hills above the beaver pond were yesterday, how elegant and perfect they were in their pristine winter garments.

In winter, the colour at the heart of every spruce and pine and hemlock is a deep blue which is almost indigo in intensity, and the deep wet Lanark snows and the long shadows of late February are blue as well - earth and stones and trees are all enfolded together in a wild lapis lazuli embrace, and on sunny days, the sky adds its own clear azure to the equation.

Yesterday, the branches of the evergreens released a heady astringent fragrance as I brushed against them on my way up the snow drowned trail to feed the birds and the deer for the first time in a few days. February is not one of the Old Wild Mother's more colourful offerings, and it is cold here, but there are rhapsodies in blue everywhere I look, if I am patient and have the eyes to see them - there are natural wonders to be seen and heard and inhaled.

Eye on the Sparrow

Much of this week has been spent clearing away snow from around the little blue house in the village. We laboriously shovelled shovel after shovel of white stuff from the cobblestone walk and driveway at the front of the place, from the sundeck and railings at the back on the south side of the property. When we began our Herculian endeavours, one couldn't see cobblestones, driveway, sundeck (or much of the railings either), but before we did anything else, we cleared the railings and filled the bird feeders. That is the place where the wild birds come to call at first light, and we knew they would be hungry after waiting out the blizzard in the big spruces nearby.

From time to time, the avian clans who visit us in winter include cardinals, chickadees, grosbeaks, siskins, jays, nuthatches and colourful house finches, but always there are house sparrows (passer domesticus), and we have much affection for these tiny stalwart feathered spirits who visit us every single day and chirrup appreciatively, even in the most inclement weather.

The sparrows are our wandering northern winter bards, and this is not the first time they have made an appearance here - I wrote about them on a cold morning in November 2005, when one tiny guest flew into the house and made himself comfortable in the sunlit dining room for a few minutes, flying away into the garden when he had warmed up a bit. Sparrows are as numerous here as they are in most urban areas, but it is always a pleasure to spend time with them in the depths of winter when other bird kin have migrated to warmer climes.

Depths is an appropriate word in these circumstances - we are almost drowning in snow at the moment.

Mama Says Om - Letter(s)

My thoughts go drifting back many years to early days at convent school; to the varnished wooden desks with their hinged lids, ink wells, glass bottles of ink and fat fountain pens, to lined notebooks (or scribblers) in which we practiced writing our vowels and consonants in a perfect cursive script. My own efforts were anything but perfect of course, and scribbler is an excellent word for the notebooks in which I was beavering away, but I delighted in the texture of the paper, the fragrance of the ink in its little pot, the contentment of holding a plump fountain pen in my hand.

Then there was the magic of books - I learned to read a few years before I went off to convent school, but long before that, I would sit quietly for hours with books, touching the paper, looking at the shapes of the letters on the pages and tracing them with pudgy fingers. I badgered my elders until they finally caved in and taught me to read, and they probably did so just for a little peace and quiet.

Books, words and letters were magical - they were sheer incandescent magic to my child self, and they still are. I often use a fountain pen (and purple or peacock blue ink) for writing letters and cards, although my handwriting is truly appalling in these arthritic elder days, and the passionate delight in books, fonts, deckle edges and fine creamy paper remains. In my next life, I would like very much to be a wandering scribe, a creator of fonts, a paper maker or a book designer, and one of the finest gifts one can bestow on her children or grandchildren (or great grandchildren even) is the love of words and letters.

Written for for the lovely mamas at Mama Says Om.

Thursday Poem - Scraps of Moon

Scraps of moon

bobbing discarded on broken water
but sky-moon
complete, transcending
all violation
Here she seems to be talking to herself about
the shape of a life:
Only Once

All which, because it was
flame and song and granted us
joy, we thought we'd do, be, revisit,
turns out to have been what it was
that once, only; every invitation
did not begin
a series, a build-up: the marvelous
did not happen in our lives, our stories
are not drab with its absence: but don't
expect to return for more. Whatever more
there will be will be
unique as those were unique. Try
to acknowledge the next
song in its body-halo of flames as utterly
present, as now or never.

Denise Levertov, The Great Unknowing

(This morning, I created a blog entry at the usual time and published it in the usual way, but it seems to have embraced the void so I am tucking it again. Perhaps the blog gremlins are active today?)

From the Heart

Here we are at Valentine's Day with its intense reds and pinks and its prevailing motifs of hearts, lace, flowers, candy and Cupids. This day is one of those observances in the mundane calendar year often called pejoratively a retail or "Hallmark Holiday" for the aggressiveness of commercial marketing campaigns, particularly by greeting card, jewellery and chocolate manufacturers. Whatever the trappings of this day, it is a treat to be celebrating something in the drab days of late winter, and shop windows are always a riot of colour and exuberance on this day, even if they are overwhelmingly saccharine.

The St. Valentine of February renown was one of three martyred bishops of the early Christian church, and the name "valentine" comes from the Latin word valens, meaning strength or strong. February 14th was declared a Church feast and St. Valentine's own day of the liturgical year in 496 CE by Pope Gelasius I. The pope's decree may have been an early attempt to rewrite and reconfigure the existing pagan festival of Lupercalia, which was dedicated to the lusty woodland goat-foot god Pan. On the old Attic (Greek) calendar, the whole interval from mid-January to mid-February was designated as the month of Gamelion and celebrated the marriage union of Zeus and Hera (or Juno). It was from the bawdy festivities of Gamelion that the ancient rite of heiros gamos (or sacred marriage) was derived.

We owe the romantic associations of this day largely to the English poet Geoffrey Chaucer and his work, Parliament of Foule (or fowl). Chaucer's poem has its roots in medieval traditions of courtly love - his lyrical poem was written to laud the first anniversary of the engagement of King Richard II of England and Anne of Bohemia. In the high middle ages, professions of love were made on February 14th, and handwritten notes were exchanged between lovers - the tradition of exchanging handwritten love notes has been long superseded by mass market greeting cards, candy (particularly chocolate), jewellery and other gifts. More than a billion greeting cards are sent out every year on St. Valentine's Day by lovers and children, and valentines seem to be more important to females of our species than males as the overwhelming majority of cards and gifts purchased for this day are by women.

Much as my tribe enjoys the pomp and circumstance of Valentine's Day, commercial notions of confining "I love you" to a single day in the calendar year make no sense to us. In the little blue house in the village, we try to do it every day and shun commercial trappings - and we make our own cards.


Sources:
The School of the Seasons, Waverly Fitzgerald
Oxford Companion to the Year, Bonnie Blackburn and Leofranc Holford-Strevens
Celestially Auspicious Occasions, Donna Henes
The Rise and Fall of Merry England, Ronald Hutton
The Dance of Time, Michael Judge
The Perpetual Almanack of Folklore, Charles Kightly

Late Winter Thoughts (II)

The late winter self draws inward and becomes thoughtful and more observant, watching patiently as the sun strengthens, the shadows shorten and the snowdrifts along the trail retreat slowly, deepening in hue and revealing a lacy fretwork as they go.

A seasonal meditation of sorts is this, one which delights in the slow advent of springtime but always seems to engender some measure of sadness. I feel passionate about these wild and snowy windswept places with their whiskery trees and deep blue shadows, and I am more at home in them than I am anywhere else on island earth. Sunlight and warmth will indeed be treasured when the world becomes green again, but some part of me will always be mourning vanished winter with its sprucey perfume and starkly sculptured vistas.

Albert Camus wrote that in the depths of winter, he discovered within himself an invincible summer. Now in late winter, I am dreaming of orchards, wild orchids and songbirds in the trees like almost everyone else in the north, but within a few months, my dreams will be of snow, ice and stillness. I have need of it all, the apples, the orchids and the grosbeaks — but I need snow, ice and stillness too.

If you have a moment today, please browse over to the website of one of my favourite thinkers, movers and shakers on matters related to global warming and environmental issues, Dr. David Suzuki, and please think about signing up for the Nature Challenge while you are there. There is so much we can do to help the Old Wild Mother heal.

Seen on the Sunday Ramble

Birds, beech conks, frozen apples and slow rambles by the creek were the order of the day.

The chickadees, nuthatches, tree sparrows and resident deer were hungry yesterday, and for a brief shining interval, there was a lovely fragrant stillness among the old beeches on the steep slope above the open creek. I photographed the conk there, then sat quietly for an hour listening to the wind in the beeches over my head and the water running over the rocks below.

The creek begins its odyssey or voyage at a hidden spring in the woods nearby where the water emerges in tiny energetic geysers from granite reservoirs several hundred feet underground. The water bubbles up to the surface icy cold and clear all year long, flowing like a small and resolute (but headstrong and very turbulent) moldau through the trees and down toward the beaver pond. In the depths of winter, it freezes entirely only a few hundred metres from the destination for which it longs so much and toward which it is traveling so ardently. So near and yet so far, little river. . . .

Late Winter Thoughts

Somewhere to the south, there are wild orchids raising their heads and fields of grazing geese, but not here and certainly not for some time. I went pottering along the trail into the woods yesterday with camera in hand, wrapped up in almost every warm garment in my closet and looking like an aged yeti dragging a a toboggan laden with grain, bird nosh and apples.

Bending over to give the icy wind a smaller target and moving slowly through the deep drifts, I could hear the wind singing out across the rocks above and found myself thinking (as is often the case at this time of year) that one becomes weary of short days, snow, ice and wind.

When I looked up for a moment at a particularly treacherous bend in the trail, there in front of me was a solitary curvaceous specimen of ironwood (or hornbeam), standing among the cedars in elegant snow wrapped splendour.

The long white season which creates such wonders surely merits more respect and appreciation than my insular and rather taciturn late winter persona has been doling out in the last few weeks.

Little Sisters in the Morning Field

The deer (all young does in these photos) are feeding in a sheltered hollow at the distant edge of the western field - they are not far from the safety of the woods if they should sense approaching danger. The task we set for ourselves several years ago continues to be performed every day or two this winter: bringing seed and suet for our winter birds, cutting and piling cedar browse for the deer and bringing grain and apples for added nourishment. In late April, the Two Hundred Acre Wood will be populated with delicate freckled fawns and their watchful mothers.

As I drink my coffee this morning, a few cheerful thoughts are making their way into the air along with the heady vapour of my libation. The great bucks in the highlands are beginning to drop their antlers. A few days ago, I heard the song of the Saw-Whet Owl in the woods, known as "the sugar bird" here for its habit of singing as the maple syrup season commences. In an old oak tree deep in the woods, a pair of Great Horned Owls have already begun to nest.

It will be many weeks here before the geese, ducks, loons and larks return or there is any visible sign of springtime in the countryside, but like the deer and the chickadees, I am a little restless, and my thoughts are turning toward the greening time - my ears are already there and listening for the return of migratory friends. Blessed be the Old Wild Mother, Her turning year and the seasons, blessed be the children of sky, forest, hillside and fen.

Mama Says Om - Courage

Courage - something we possess in abundance whether we know it and recognize it or we do not.

Here's to the mothers, the warriors, the teachers and the visionaries, the artists, truthseekers, environmentalists and healers. Here is to the peacemakers. Here is to those who are fierce with reality, who choose a place to stand in truth and compassion and keep it. Here is to those with the courage to make a difference.

Written for the wise mamas at Mama Says Om.

Poem/Song Changes

Sit by my side, come as close as the air,
share in a memory of gray,
wander in my words, dream about the pictures
that I play of changes.

The green leaves of summer turn red in the fall,
to brown and to yellow they fade,
and then they have to die, trapped within
the circle time parade of changes.

Scenes of my young years were warm in my mind,
visions of shadows that shine,
til one day I returned and found they were the
victims of the vines of changes.

The world's spinning madly, it drifts in the dark
swings through a hollow of haze,
a race around the stars, a journey through
the universe ablaze with changes.

Moments of magic will glow in the night
all fears of the forest are gone
but when the morning breaks they're swept away by
golden drops of dawn, of changes.

Passions will part to a strange melody.
as fires will sometimes burn cold.
like petals in the wind, we're puppets to the silver
strings of souls, of changes.

Your tears will be trembling, now we're somewhere else,
one last cup of wine we will pour
and I'll kiss you one more time, and leave you on
the rolling river shores of changes.

Sit by my side, come as close as the air,
share in a memory of gray,
wander in my words, dream about the pictures
that I play of changes.

Phil Ochs, Changes

The theme at Poetry Thursday this week is "changes", and there are probably few thoughtful children of the sixties (now elders) who can hear the word without remembering this magnificent and timeless song crafted by the long departed American bard Phil Ochs. If there is a theme for my adolescent days, this song is it - I listen to it now and remember fondly the multitudinous college discussions in the wee hours of the morning about peace, politics, the environment and spirituality. Still passionate (or crazy) after all these years. . .

Liminal Thoughts By the Fence

What lies at the heart of this impulse to stand out in a field somewhere and contemplate snow, gates and fences on a bitterly cold day in February?

Is it a simple and somewhat melancholy pleasure which arises out viewing wide expanses of rippling snow demarcated by old rails and pipe gates, not a building in sight? Is it thoughts of emptiness? Is it the sound of the hollow wind which sweeps across this desert of cold, sculpting random waves, billows, figurines and abstract shapes as it passes? Is it the intense colours of the deep shadows which lie over and around everything? Is it a desire for order and containment which is symbolized by old cedar rails and rusty gates? Is it the realm which beckons beyond the gates?

In winter, the landscape is revealed to a patient and thoughtful wanderer as it is at no other time in the turning year. I see the undulating shapes of the landscape and can trace its rocky bones with my eyes. I sense its peaceful slumber, its slow dreams and the springtime which is to come (although spring seems far away on such a day as this). If I am quiet and observant, there are rainbows of colour to be seen in the snow and shadows, there is music in the wind.

It all comes down to stillness, to being in the moment. Perhaps there is no profound reason for being my here at all - it is enough simply to be in this place, to be doing this very thing and at this moment and not wondering why.

Himalayan Garden

All Well

All is well here this morning, if one does not consider the icy state of affairs beyond the windows. My friend turned up yesterday afternoon at the appointed hour, and we took my CPU apart, extracted the memory card from its perch inside the wrong USB port, then dusted and cleaned the various components and put everything back together again. As we worked, we exchanged tales and had a few chuckles now and again about the things which go wrong with computer components and the silly things which users do.

It didn't take long to do the job, and when we were finished, we relaxed in the living room with several mugs of Earl Grey tea and wholegrain shortbreads. Sunday afternoon flew by us in the twinkling of an eye and made a soft landing somewhere in the snow behind the little blue house in the village. Now there is a cheerful thought - perhaps the deep snow drifts in my garden are a repository (or sanctuary) for winter afternoons which have been spent companionably with old friends and mugs of tea.

This morning, I was able to extract these two photos from my memory card and was delighted to learn that it has not been traumatized by its wild ride and adventures in the wrong slot. It is about minus forty (Celsius) here, and it is unlikely that I will be going anywhere today unless absolutely necessary, but the sunlight through the windows is grand stuff indeed.

This week's haiku offering is here.

Grumble, grumble, grumble. . . .

Grumble, grumble, grumble. . . . Off we went to the woods yesterday morning although it was cold, and we performed all the usual tasks. I took a few photos while we were wandering about in the woods, but it was too cold to remain gloveless for very long - not much was recorded in the way of scenery or wildlife imagery.

On returning home late in the day, out came the memory card from the camera and I trotted in here to download the photos, but I was feeling nauseous and did an unthinking and incredibly stupid thing - I plugged the memory card into the wrong slot on the computer. As I sit here typing this morning I can see the card, but I am unable to extract it from the drive, and there are several photos on it which I would love to look at and play around with in PhotoShop CS2.

Today's excitement will consist of a good friend visiting after lunch with a lovely big bag of technician's tools - we will unscrew the casing on the computer, remove the drive and extract the memory card, then put everything back together again. Afterward, we will have several cups of tea and good laugh at my expense.

I am a little cross at myself at present. There are days when I should not be allowed anywhere near kitchen appliances or electronic devices of any sort whatsoever. Yesterday was one of those days.

Down the Snowy Road

February's Full Storm Moon/Imbolc

Inky forests and purple snows, ice coated branches in the eastern field like jewels in the dusk. . . .

February's moon is a winter orb, rising cold and clear over chimneys disclosing woodsmoke, snow bound fields, icy trees and dark fragrant woodland. I think of February's lunar cycle as the cycle of the spruce moon because spruce is the true fragrance of northern winter, heady and invigorating "stuff" to inhale as one potters along on snowshoes or makes her way through deep drifts without them.

This year, February's moon is also the Imbolc or Candlemas moon, falling as it does on the eve of the old Celtic cross quarter day of reflection, purification, cleansing and renewal. For the ancient Celts, February 2 was Latha Fheill Bride, Gwyl Ffraed or Latha Fheill Brighde, and in the great round of the turning year, it is the day consecrated to Brigid (or Brighid, Brigit or Bride as she is also known). Brigid is a deity of fire, and she is the patroness of light, inspiration and all our creative endeavours, be such arts those of the blacksmith, the chandler (candlemaker), the bard, the poet or the artist. This is also Groundhog Day, and therefore a day of weather divination. If a groundhog sees his shadow today, we are in for another six weeks of winter (until the Vernal Equinox). If the groundhog does not see his shadow, then spring is just over the horizon.

A very Merry Imbolc (or Groundhog Day) to all of you!

We also know this winter moon as the: Ash Moon, Big Winter Moon, Bony Moon, Budding Moon, Candlemas Moon, Chestnuts Moon, Cleansing Moon, Cold Winds Moon, Coyote Frighten Moon, Crow Moon, Death Moon, Eagle Moon , Fish Running Moon, Frost Sparkling in the Sun Moon, Gray Moon, Horn Moon, Hunger Moon, Ice in River Is Gone Moon, Ice Moon, Imbolc Moon, Index Finger Moon, Little Bud Moon, Long Dry Moon, Makes Branches Fall in Pieces Moon, Mimosa Moon, Moon of Ice, Moon of Purification and Renewal, Moon of Rabbit Conception, Moon of the Cedar Dust Wind, Moon of the Raccoon, Moon of the Frog, Moon When Geese Come Home, Moon When the Bear Cubs are Born, Moon When the Spruce Tips Fall, Moon When Trees Pop, Moon When Trees Are Bare and Vegetation Is Scarce, Narcissus Moon, No Snow in Trails Moon, Peach Blossom Moon, Pink Moon, Plum Blossom Moon, Primrose Moon, Quickening Moon, Raccoon Moon, Rain and Dancing Moon, Red Moon, Second Moon, Snow Crust Moon, Snow Moon, Solmon (Sun Moon), Squint Rock Moon, Staying Home Moon, Storing Moon, Trapper’s Moon, Treacherous Moon, Violet Moon, Wexes Moon, Wild Moon, Wind Moon, Wind Tossed Moon, Winter Moon

Links
My own favorite links for the festival of Imbolc include the following:

• Sister Joanna Mermaid's beautiful page at JPC Artworks, which is dedicated to the Celtic goddess, Brigid
• Waverly Fitzgerald's Candlemas lore page at the School of the Seasons
• Dr. Kathleen Jenks' Imbolc page at Mything Links
• Mara Freeman's essay on Imbolc at Chalice Centre. There is also a wonderful February ritual at Mara's site, and it is located here.

Poem - All Will Come Again

All will come again into its strength:

the fields undivided, the waters undammed,
the trees towering and the walls built low.
And in the valleys, people as strong and varied as the land.

And no churches where God
is imprisoned and lamented
like a trapped and wounded animal.
The houses welcoming all who knock
and a sense of boundless offering
in all relations, and in you and me.

No yearning for an afterlife, no looking beyond,
no belittling of death,
but only longing for what belongs to us
and serving earth, lest we remain unused.

Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Hours

(translation by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows)