Pages

Monday, April 30, 2012

Small Miracles Before Beltane

Against all odds and the unseasonably cool weather, magnolia trees in the village are blithely putting out shy green leaves in profusion, and they're covered from top to bottom with blooms shading from velvety cream to rosy pink at heart. 
Their delicate flowering is manna or soul food to Spencer and I on our daily potterings, and it's food for thought too.  We pause to admire their abundance, reciprocity and largeness of spirit whenever and wherever we encounter the trees, and looking up into their branches, we just know that springtime is here in some measure somewhere, whether or not we have the wits to see it.
Beltane (or May Day) begins at sunset today, and may all its balmy airs and graces be yours!

Sunday, April 29, 2012

Singing Through the Door

The last few days have seen a return of winter, icy winds, light snow, gray skies and heavy cloud concealing the presence, somewhere beyond us (and hopefully not so far away), of warmth and springtime. 
This morning there is bright sunlight, but temperatures are below freezing, and there is a strong north wind blowing from the Gatineau hills across the river.
The frigid fingers of the wind and its hollow song are reminders that we make our home in an ancient rift valley (the Ottawa-Bonnechere Graben) in the southern part of the Canadian Shield.  The Ottawa River runs along the bottom of our valley, and a steep escarpment on the northern edge forms the beautiful Gatineau Hills - views from the heights in springtime and autumn are stunning, and on clear days, it does seem as though one can see forever.
In nests all over the village, birds are scrambling to keep their eggs warm and newly hatched offspring fed and out of the wind. House finches have nested in the oak wreath on the front door for the fourth year in a row, and they are hunkered down on their five eggs, both devoted to the brood who will emerge into the great wide world in a week or so.  Whenever we pass by the door, their blithe conversations can be heard emanating from the other side, just below the Georgian fanlight.

Saturday, April 28, 2012

Morning's Rite of Comfort and Warmth

It is sunny here this morning for a change, but the temperature is below zero, and the burgeoning buds of springtime have folded up or fallen away prematurely.
Drastic measures are called for, and who says I can't have a Florentine or three with my morning cup of French Roast anyway? The combination is sublime.

Friday, April 27, 2012

Friday Ramble - Dreams Are Made of This

My dear friend and mermaid sister, Kim Antieau, is joining us this morning to talk about the genesis of her fabulous novel, Her Frozen Wild.

A long time archeology buff, I was chuffed when I learned that Kim's new book was inspired by the Siberian Ice Maiden unearthed on the Ukok Plateau in the nineties by Natalia Polosmak and a team from the Russian Institute of Archaeology and Ethnography.
The ice maiden belonged to the nomadic Pazyryk culture which inhabited the Siberian steppes centuries before the Common Era, and from the artifacts found in her tomb, she was an important member of her tribe, perhaps a priestess or shaman - Dr. Polosmak believes the barrow's distinguished occupant was at the very least, a bard or sacred storyteller.

Little was ever published in translation about the Siberian "dig", but I read about it in the National Geographic and was fascinated, especially by the deer tattoo with the flowering antlers on the ice maiden's shoulder; it was as fresh and modern looking as if it had been done yesterday, and it spoke to me.  I found myself sketching the tattoo and trying to think of something to do with it - years later, the design landed up on a small collection of items at Cafe Press.

Now, Kim has brought the ice maiden to life in a beautiful novel which unites the present and ancient times, and her book is superb reading, mythic fiction in every sense of the word.

---------------------------
Dreams Are Made of This
Kim Antieau

I have a very vivid dream life. I have since I was a child. From the ages of five until I was twenty-five, I dreamed several times a week that someone was trying to kill me. I spent many nights in my dreams running, running, running from some unknown assailant. Fortunately those nightmares have taken a backseat in my dream life for many years now and only pop up now and again. But I still have some amazing dreams.

Because I have such vivid dreams and I talk about them, my friends have often asked if my dreams inspire my stories. I didn’t think so until I began to dream about bears.

Many years ago I began dreaming about bears several times a week. During one year, it seemed as though I was having bear dreams nightly. I dreamed of grizzly bears and black bears. In the dreams, the bears were often chasing my husband, Mario. I was usually trying to protect him from the bears.

In one dream I climbed a tree to escape a bear. Then I looked down at my own hands and saw they were claws: I had become a grizzly bear. In another dream, a bear was on a rampage in my neighborhood. Terrified, I confronted him. I told him I would make love with him–essentially become his bear-wife—if he would stop his violence. He agreed to my bargain.

During this time of the bear dreams, I researched bears, bear mythology, and bear folk tales. I discovered that many indigenous people believed humans and bears were related. Bears were often totem or spirit animals for healers. If someone dreamed of a bear, then she was probably a healer. Many cultures believed bears could become human and humans could shape-shift into bears.

The Siberians had elaborate rituals and ceremonies for hunting the bear, as did many Native American tribes. They believed the bear offered itself up to the hunters as a sacrifice. The hunters had to be respectful and follow the rituals carefully so that they didn’t dishonor the bear or its spirit when they killed the animal.

Around the time of my bear dreams, I went to a workshop at Breitenbush Hotsprings in Oregon. Breitenbush is deep in the forest near Mount Hood, away from any town or city. The wild surrounded us. While I was there, I read an article about the Scythian mummies unearthed in Siberia. One of the mummies, the so-called “Ice Maiden,” had tattoos on her body, and she’d been buried with a conical hat and other items that indicated to the archaeologists that she might have been some kind of priestess or shaman.

As I read the article, I got chills. I knew I had to write about her. I devoured any information I could find out about her, the Scythians, and the nomadic cultures of the Altai Plateau in Siberia.

The story for Her Frozen Wild began to unfold as I did research during the day and dreamed of bears during the night. It became a story about the ancient shapeshifting People who were the ascendants of the Scythians of the Altai Plateau. Tattoos and cave art became an important part of the story, too, acting as a kind of pathway to enable time-travel and shapeshifting.

Although the “plot” of my bear dreams never became part of the story of Her Frozen Wild, the dream where I placated the rampaging bear by becoming his bear-wife was at the heart of the novel. In my dream, I essentially agreed to become part of the bear clan. In the novel, the main character, Ursula, comes to terms with her own family history: Her grandmother had become a bear-wife decades earlier. More importantly, Ursula embraces her own true wild self.

Dreams can be potent symbols for our lives and creativity. I often put my own dreams in my novels as a character’s dream. Dreams have their own logic, and I’m hesitant to make them up out of whole cloth, so when one of mine will work in a story, I’ll use it.

In the case of Her Frozen Wild, I’m not sure the novel would exist today if I hadn’t had so many dreams of bears. I always understood the visceral fear of bears human have, but because of my dreams, I also came to understand their raw power, mystery, and sacredness.

After I finished writing Her Frozen Wild, my frequent intense bear dreams stopped. Every once in a while, I will dream of a bear. I’m always glad for the dream. I feel as though I’ve been visited by a relative. Nowadays I’m always on the lookout for some wild or strange creature that might start frequenting my dreams. Who knows? They might just inspire my next novel. 

Copyright © 2012 by Kim Antieau.
All rights reserved.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Two for the Road - Mrs. Peel and Spencer

A thirteen year old GSP (German Shorthair Pointer) belonging to our friends the Armstrongs in the Lanark Highlands, Emma is Spencer's best friend, confidante, soulmate and rambling companion in the woods, just as she was our beloved Cassie's companion a few years ago.  As the elder in the relationship, Cassie was always very much the boss; now Emma is the matriarch in the equation, and Spencer treats her with loving respect and attention - when necessary, obedience too.

Em was named at birth for Emma Peel, John Steed's companion in the wonderful old British television series called "The Avengers", and she has all the grace, forceful personality and athletic ability of the warrior for whom she was named.  Spencer is named after the late Robert B. Parker's fictional sleuth Spencer, and the monikers of the two close chums are apt.  Like all GSPs, they have phenomenal noses and a sure talent for finding things, and they work very well as a team in the woods.
Beautiful, brainy and somewhat independent by nature, Em has a puckish sense of humor, and she is rather bossy, but then she has the right to be bossy at her age.  Her family doesn't mind; we don't mind, and Spencer doesn't seem to mind either.
At the age of ninety or so in human years, the lady is still remarkably fleet of foot, and in motion she has the winning form of a fine thoroughbred, so much so that I have been trying for years to capture an image of her in action and never succeeded until this week.  Ditto an image of her with Spencer - they are always together, but never slow down long enough to be captured on film or a memory card, at least in the same frame. They are indeed a magnificent pair, and we love them both.

Monday, April 23, 2012

Snowing, snowing...

Knowing that the month of April is always something of a cusp this far north, a hinge between the seasons, we try to be ready for quicksilver change, but the view beyond the windows this morning was a surprise nevertheless. We were caught napping, taken by night, by stealth, by puckish seasonal artifice.

We opened our eyes to falling snow, and there is more to come today, perhaps a reminder from the Old Wild Mother that whatever the works of man (or woman), She still has carriage of the Great Round of time and the seasons.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

After the Rain

One expects these things in April - clear skies at sunrise with only a few confetti colored clouds to highlight the rim of morning's bowl, then clouds rolling in and dispensing fine light rains that last for much of the day.  It has been an unusually dry springtime here, and the rains are much needed.  Besides, the sound of rain through the open windows of the little blue house in the village is a happy thing.  I pause now and again in my toings and froings to listen and rejoice that the world is greening up again.

After yesterday's rain, Spencer and I went for a long walk in our own sweet time, peering intently into hedgerows and neighborhood gardens to see what was blooming, and we stopped to admire a friend's colony of blue irises - so intensely hued that they could be seen from almost a block away.  Last autumn, Hannah placed old grates and oven racks over the sleeping bulbs in her garden, and protected from the predations of village squirrels, every single one came up this year.  Up close, the blooms were gloriously dappled with raindrops and swaying gently in the breeze.

The Greek word iris (plural irides) means rainbow, and is also the name of my favorite springtime goddess.  Iris personified the presence of the rainbow on Mount Olympus and acted as the messenger of the gods, carrying their missives between heaven and earth along the colored arches that grace us with their presence after the rain.

Monday, April 16, 2012

Rising Wild

  
First Trillium Leaves

Sunday, April 15, 2012

Shimmering Nightfall

One of those springtime sunsets so vivid, powerful and luminous that it brings a shoreline witness to her knees.  At the same time, it makes her want to sing and shout and dance (or more likely hobble and lurch) along the beach in sheer jubilation.

The descending April sun pours its light over the lake like liquid gold, and the western shore is merely a suggestion of misty hills seen through the shimmer.  Only a fool would try to paint such liminal moments, and even the best of photos seldom captures more than a scrap of their enchantment, but I am a fool and admit it cheerfully.

The light and clouds and waves have to be just right for such vistas, and if they were potions, they would possess enough magic and pack enough radiant power to convey immortality.  Even old Croesus can't match these riches, and he would surely be entranced by all this gold.  And me???  I just sit here on the beach with my camera and my mouth hanging open in wonder?

Saturday, April 14, 2012

A Little Mauve in the Morning

Round-lobed Hepatica
(Hepatica nobilis)

Friday, April 13, 2012

Friday Ramble - Atomy/Atomies

Atomy comes to us from the Middle English attome, the Latin atomus and the Greek atomos: a- (not) plus -tomos (cutting), thence from the Indo-European temnein meaning to cut.    Kindred words (of course) are atom, atomism and atomic, and (not so obviously), tome which now refers to a book or a volume of reading material but once meant simply something cut or carved from a larger entity.  Synonyms include corpuscle, mote, particle, speck, molecule and grain, as in "a grain of sand" or "a grain of sugar"

An atomy is a tiny part of something, a minute particle, and it was once held in physics to be the smallest possible unit of the known universe: a dense, central, positively charged nucleus circled by electrons whirling around in ecstatic orbit. Complete within itself, it was deemed irreducible and indivisible except for constrained processes of removal or transfer or the exchange of component electrons.  Current thinking is that the much smaller quark is the fundamental element of creation, and the quarks of which atomies, atoms and other tiny wonders are composed come in six eccentric flavors: up, down, charm, strange, bottom and top.

I think of atomies on awakening to gray skies, to rain on the roof beating staccato time without reference to meter or metronome, a puckish wind capering in the eaves and ruffling new green leaves in the garden like tangy decks of playing cards, to drifting fog wrapping the old trees, rooflines and chimneys in the village.

Rain on hosta leaves, dew on grasses in the hedgerow - each and every drop is an atomy,  a minute world teeming with vibrant life, a whole magical universe looking up and smiling at this ungainly creature bent over in wonder with a camera in her hand.  I am not sure I am ever going to get a handle on using my fancy new macro lens, but it is teaching me how to look at the world in new ways, and that is a fine old thing.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Following the Sun

Trout Lily, also called Adder's Tongue,
Dogtooth Violet, Yellow Adder's Tongue
(Erythronium americanum)
The leaves are popping up everywhere on the forest floor this week, and they're rather fetching in their mottled burgundy and vibrant green, but I was surprised to find the first bloom of the season in a sunny nook a few days ago.

This shy woodland member of the lily family is a small miracle blooming in its own sweet time - it takes about seven years for a plant to take root, mature and produce a perfect golden flower with six bright burgundy stamens.  The single bloom opens at dawn and follows the sun all around the sky in the course of a day, folding inward when the sun goes down. At noon, the perianth (outermost parts) opens up completely and curves backward as elegantly as a Turkish cap.

The lily loves the companionship of its kin, spreading from the offshoots of a single corm to form vast colonies in which the leaf patterns are almost identical.  They grow best in a deciduous woodland setting where they receive filtered light in springtime, and they prefer humus rich soil. Its presence in vast numbers among the trees of the Two Hundred Acre Wood is a sure sign that our favorite part of the world is a fertile sylvan environment.

Monday, April 09, 2012

At Play in the North Woods

The sky is blue, and there are grosbeaks singing in the overstory.  Shielded from the north wind, Spencer is at play among the trees of the Lanark highlands, and the soft April sun is warm on his dappled fur.

He runs, his dancing feet scattering last autumn's fallen leaves - he is moving as he dreamed of moving all winter along when the snow was too deep for such things, his tail high and his expressive ears flying in the wind. Some days, being a canine is simply divine.

There are bogs and ponds to wade in, holes to dig, interesting artifacts to unearth and fine "stuff" to roll on.  There are sticks to toss and chase, familiar forest trails to float along, kicking up his heels and drinking in the intoxicating smells of springtime.  There are wonderful sounds to sample and identify: owls calling in the deep woods, partridge drumming beyond the ridge, hawks keening as they hunt overhead in the cloudless sky.
When the day is done, he will smell like the bottom of a bog himself, and his mum will insist on giving him a bath - puzzling because he thinks he smells just grand and can't figure out what all the fuss is about.  Whatever is the matter with us?

Sunday, April 08, 2012

Friday, April 06, 2012

Friday Ramble - First Blooming

 Sharp-Lobed Hepatica
(Hepatica acutiloba)
Seek and ye shall find wild sylvan riches in springtime... Although it is still quite cold here, yesterday, we discovered the first hepatica of the season, a single tiny cluster of buds swaying to and fro in a sunny protected nook on the granite wall in the gorge. Within a week, the entire forest floor will be carpeted with these tiny delicate flowers in shades ranging from snowy white to deep violet blue.

Tucked in behind the hepatica was a minute striped specimen of its favorite woodland companion, Spring Beauty (Claytonia virginica), and soon there will be millions of these in the woods too.

As always, there is a measure of wisdom to be gleaned in these springtime rambles.  Even the finest macro lens is no match for a puckish north wind dancing through wildflowers no larger than a pea, and one has to learn how to make the April wind part of the image.  I  have a long long way to go...

Thursday, April 05, 2012

Thursday Poem - For Pesach

They thought they were safe
that spring night; when they daubed
the doorways with sacrificial blood.
To be sure, the angel of death
passed them over, but for what?
Forty years in the desert
without a home, without a bed,
following new laws to an unknown land.
Easier to have died in Egypt
or stayed there a slave, pretending
there was safety in the old familiar.

But the promise, from those first
naked days outside the garden,
is that there is no safety,
only the terrible blessing
of the journey. You were born
through a doorway marked in blood.
We are, all of us, passed over,
brushed in the night by terrible wings.

Ask that fierce presence,
whose imagination you hold.
God did not promise that we shall live,
but that we might, at last, glimpse the stars,
brilliant in the desert sky.

Lynn Ungar, 
(from Blessing the Bread)

Tomorrow is the first day of Passover.  Happy Pesach to everyone!

Tuesday, April 03, 2012

April Wine

What one is always longing for... a sunset so vivid and powerful and luminous that it brings the shoreline witness to her knees, makes her want to dance (or more likely hobble and lurch) along the beach in sheer full-blown delight, sing and shout her thanks to the Great Round for putting on such an astonishing show.

In April and October, the sun goes down in flames over the lake watched by flocks of returning birds and one old hen carrying a camera (me). Sometimes, just sometimes, there is an echo of eternity, a moment of kensho or true seeing out there, a fleeting glimpse into something grand and sacred, timeless and transcendent.

Only a fool would try to paint an April sunset (I'm a fool of course), and even the best of photos seldom captures more than a scrap of the magic in such liminal moments. If these sunsets were potions, they would be heady concoctions - brews rich and sparkling, potent enough to convey wonder and enlightenment and vibrant immortality. An April sunset is fine wine indeed.

Monday, April 02, 2012

Sunday, April 01, 2012

Earth Hour 2012

There is something about a lighted candle, especially a lighted beeswax candle.  These votives in their glass jars lighted our way around the house for Earth Hour 2012 on what turned out to be a lovely dark inky night, presaged by a magnificent flaming sunset that dazzled the eyes and stirred the senses. Had the evening been just a little warmer, an open air observance and a bonfire on the beach would have been grand.

Turning out the lights for an hour or so to honor the Old Wild Mother seems like a small thing to do once a year, but more and more, it seems to me that if we and this hallowed planet we all call home are going to be saved, it will be by modest deeds and humble tokens.  We should embrace such undertakings, individually, tribally and all together.

Intentionally seeing the world by candlelight or firelight for a brief interval is a respectful act - it is something we try to remember to do here on the solstices and equinoxes and are now thinking about doing more often, perhaps at new moon time.

How did you observe Earth Hour last evening, did you turn out the lights?