The Between Days

Here we are again, poised at the heart of the liminal interlude bookended every year by the Winter Solstice and the shiny new year only a few days away. These winter days are a precious (and much needed) breathing spell between the two holidays, and I like to think of them as the "between days". 

It seems as though 2024 just got here, but we are bidding it farewell and considering 2025 with its unknown possibilities, adventures, trials and ordeals. A few gentle adventures next year, and fewer ordeals, please. No cancer surgeries, perishing furnaces, madly tilting garden sheds and crumbling chimneys. Enough already.

Holiday shopping (what little there was of it) was wrapped up and tucked under the little tree in good time this year. A thousand and one cookies were made, and fruitcakes, coffee beans, tins of baking and bottles of wine were delivered around the village. Gift bags, ribbons and wrapping paper have already been folded and put away for another time, and the silken rustle of the tissue as it was smoothed and pleated into neat squares was pleasing to the ear.

Now there is stillness in the little blue house, and after days of toing and froing, there is time for rest and reflection. Who knows what Beau and I will be doing on New Year's eve? Seasonal viruses are running amok in the village, and there is a possibility we will be home by ourselves, safely sequestered with wonderfully smelly candles, a wedge of fine old cheddar, a good book, tea, gingerbread and clementines.

I made a lovely big pot of Bigelow's Constant Comment tea this morning, and the kitchen was filled with the fragrance of oranges and sweet spice. Snow sparkled through the south facing window, and the kitchen was filled with silvery dancing light. As we leaned against the counter and waited for the kettle to sing, it seemed to Beau and I that the best part of the holidays is the clamor and bustle when the house is filled with loved ones, comfortable, together and happy to be here.

There was laughter and camaraderie in the kitchen, and around the old oak table in the dining room. Endless mugs of tea were poured and mountains of munchies were consumed. There was an eloquent silence in the darkened garden when everyone went home after our revels ended. Looking up at the moon, we (Beau and I) I thought of our departed companion, and we sent him our love. Blessed be.

Wordless Wednesday - On the Edge

The Between Days

Here we are again, poised at the heart of the liminal interlude bookended every year by the Winter Solstice and the shiny new year only a few days away. These winter days are a precious (and much needed) breathing spell between the two holidays, and I like to think of them as the "between days". It seems as though 2023 just got here, but we are  bidding it farewell and contemplating 2024 with all its unknown possibilities, adventures, trials and ordeals. A few more adventures next year, and fewer ordeals, please.

Holiday shopping (what little there was of it) was wrapped up and tucked under the little tree in good time this year. A thousand and one cookies were made, and tins of baking were delivered around the village. This year, the members of my tribe are either abroad, or they have full houses of their own so my own celebration will take place today with dear friends. Gift bags, ribbons and wrapping have already been folded and put away for another time, and the silken rustle of the tissue as it was smoothed and pleated into neat squares was pleasing to the ear.

Now there is stillness in the little blue house, and after days of toing and froing, there is time for rest and reflection. Who knows what Beau and I will be doing on New Year's eve? COVID and seasonal viruses are running amok in the village again. There is a possibility we will be home by ourselves and safely sequestered with wonderfully smelly candles, a wedge of fine old cheddar, a mug or two of cider and gingerbread.

I made a lovely big pot of Bigelow's Constant Comment tea this morning, and the kitchen was filled with the fragrance of oranges and sweet spice. Snow sparkled through the south facing window, and the kitchen was filled with silvery dancing light. As we leaned against the counter and waited for the kettle to sing, it seemed to Beau and I that the best part of the holidays is the clamor and bustle when we are together.

There is laughter and camaraderie in the kitchen, and around the old oak table in the dining room when the feast is set out. Endless mugs of tea are poured. There is an eloquent silence in the darkened garden when everyone goes home after our revels have ended. Looking up at the moon, almost full last night, we (Beau and I) I thought of our departed companion, and we sent him our love. Blessed be.

On the Border Between Here and There

Wordless Wednesday - On the Edge

On the Edge

The Between Days

Here we are again, poised at the heart of the liminal interlude bookended every year by the Winter Solstice and the shiny new year only a few days away. These winter days are a precious (and much needed) breathing spell between the two holidays, and I like to think of them as the "between days". It seems as though 2022 just got here, but we are bidding it farewell and contemplating 2023 with all its unknown possibilities, adventures, trials and ordeals. A few more adventures next year, and fewer ordeals, please.

Holiday shopping (what little there was of it) was wrapped up and tucked under the little tree in good time this year. A thousand and one cookies were made, and tins of baking were delivered around the village. I spent a lovely quiet afternoon with dear friends on December 24th, then enjoyed feasting and merriment with family members on Christmas Day. The luscious leftovers were parceled up and sent home with dinner guests, the opening gambit in my usual Boxing Day doings. Gift bags, ribbons and wrapping have already been folded and put away for another time, and the silken rustle of the tissue as it was smoothed and pleated into neat squares was pleasing to the ear.

Now there is stillness in the little blue house, and after days of toing and froing, there is time for rest and reflection. Who knows what Beau and I will be doing on New Year's eve? With COVID numbers on the rise again, there is a fair possibility that we will be home by ourselves and safely sequestered with candles, cider and gingerbread.

I made a lovely big pot of Bigelow's Constant Comment tea this morning, and the kitchen was filled with the fragrance of oranges and sweet spice. Snow sparkled through the south facing window, and the kitchen was filled with silvery dancing light. As we leaned against the counter and waited for the kettle to sing, it seemed to Beau and I that the best part of the holiday this year was the clamor and bustle in the kitchen as festive meals came together. There was laughter and camaraderie around the old oak table when food was put out and endless cups of tea afterward, an eloquent silence in the garden at nightfall as light snow fell and everyone went home. We thought of my departed soulmate (the boys' beloved papa), and we sent him our love. Blessed be.

Friday Ramble - Edgy and Chthonic

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 first of this week's words (edge) has been around for some time, dating in its present form from the tenth century at the very latest. 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". Way back there in the beginning times (or at least a few thousand years before the common era commenced) is the Proto-Indo-European (PIE) form ak- meaning "sharp".

The storm tossed eastern Ontario 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 is falling asleep, 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 examples of a blade smith's art. For all the early winter emptiness, frost and morning sunlight change the landscape into something rich and elegant and inviting: glittering fronds artfully curved and waving in the fields, milkweed sculpted into pleasing shapes, bare trees on the hills twinkling like stars, the edges of blackberry leaves rosy and sparkling with frost crystals.

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

Songs in a Different Key

Leaves crunching underfoot or rattling like sabres in in the wind, ice crystals limning cedar fence rails along the ridge, blowsy plumes of frosted grasses along the edge of the western field, stands of frozen reeds along the pond—all are fine representations of the season, plangent leitmotifs in the windy musical work that is late autumn. At this time of the year, the Two Hundred Acre Wood is an Aeolian harp, a vast musical instrument that only the wind can play.

The season marches onward, settling slowly, and with deep sighs, into the subdued tints of early winter: soft bronzes, creams, beiges and silvery greys, small splashes here and there of winey red, burgundy, russet, a midnight blue almost iridescent in its sheen and intensity, but oh so fragile.

Frost in the eastern Ontario highlands makes itself known as sugary drifts over old wood and on fallen leaves almost transparent in their lacy textures. An owl's artfully barred feather lies in thin sunlight under the fragrant cedars down by the spring and seems to be giving off a graceful, pearly light of its own. The weedy residents of field and fen cavort in fringed and tasseled hats.

One needs another lens and tuning for late autumn and early winter, a different sort of vision, a song in a different key. The senses perform a seasonal shift of their own, moving carefully into the consideration of things small, still and muted, but complete within themselves and perfect, even when they are cold and wet and tattered.

There is light in the world, even in these dark times, and I have to remember that. My camera and lens never forget, and out in the woods, they drink in light like nectar. I am thankful that they do and that they remind me at every turning along on the trail—we are made of star stuff. We live in a sea of light.

Friday Ramble - Earth and Sky and Lake Together

The water is still, and trees along the far shore are cloaked in drifting fog that billows and swirls as though stirred by a vast, benign and blessing hand. Earth and water are warmer than the air, and the meeting of the three elements spins a pearly veil over everything in sight. Sunlight or autumn rain - either will disperse the fog, but there is rain in the cards, and clouds are already moving in. It is rain that will lift the veil this morning.

Thanks to cold nights, frost and the scouring north wind, the countryside is morphing into its early winter configuration. There is still a wealth of color in the eastern Ontario highlands, but here and there, trees are bare on their slopes, and fallen leaves lie ankle deep in the woods. Just out of sight in this photo, an old hawthorn near the shore has lost its leaves entirely and wears only a few frosted berries.

Also unseen is the scribe in wellies and warm jacket, carrying her blackthorn walking stick, a camera, lenses, pen and field notebook. Her collar is turned up against the wind, and she is wearing gloves. In one of her pockets is a flask of sweet and creamy Irish Cream tea, and in another, biscuits for her companion, Beau. She can't wander as far as she used to, but wander she does by golly, every chance she gets.

Caught up in the fey ambiance of the scene before her, she breathes in the magic of sunlight filtering through the lacy golden tamaracks on the other side of the lake and radiating through the fog to cast voluminous shadows on the water. She was feeling lost when she got here, and in truth, she is still feeling a little lost, but paradoxically, she is also feeling at home. Emaho.

Friday Ramble, Edgy

This week's word has been around since the eleventh century, making its way to us through the Middle English egge, the Old English ecg, the Old French aiglent and the Old Germanic ecke, all meaning "corner". It is also related to the Latin acer meaning "sharp", and the Greek akmē meaning "point". At the root of it all is the Proto-Indo-European (PIE) ak- meaning "sharp". Kindred words in the English language include acerbic, acid, acrid, acumen, acupuncture, acute, eager, ester, exacerbate, hammer and selvedge as well as eglantine (or sweetbriar), an old world rose known for its thorns.

An edgy time is this, for the old Celtic year is passing away, and we stand on the threshold of a brand new year, in the north a chilling contraption of fallen leaves and freezing earth, short days, darkness, frost and wind.

The eastern Ontario highlands always seem empty at this time of the year and rather lonesome. Except for Canada geese and a few intrepid herons, migratory birds have departed for warmer climes, and the lake seems still and empty. Most of our wild forest kin are already hibernating or are thinking about doing it.

On early morning trips into the woods, the long shadows falling across our trail have edges as sharp as the finest examples of the blade smith's craft. The earth under our boots is firm, leaves are crunchy, and puddles along our way are rimed with ice. For all the emptiness, frost and morning sunlight change the Two Hundred Acre Wood into something rich and elegant and inviting: glittering weed fronds artfully curved and waving in the fields, milkweed sculpted into pleasing shapes, bare trees twinkling like stars, the margins of blackberry leaves rosy and sparkling with frost crystals. The air is fragrant with cedar, spruce and pine.

These weeks always seem 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 is usually employed in describing subterranean matters and deities of the underworld. In using the adjective, we focus on what is deeper or within, rather than on what is apparent at first glance or resting on the surface. Implicit in the expression are notions of rest, sleep, fertility and rebirth - entelechy, mortality and abundance coexisting and enfolding each other in a deep embrace.

Between Here and There

Friday Ramble - Consider

This week's word is one of my favorite words in the whole English lexicon, in part because of the notions of careful thought, deliberation and balance enfolded in it, but mostly because of its splendid celestial origins.

Think Vincent Van Gogh and his gorgeous "Starry Starry Night". Our lofty hails from around 1350 CE, tracing its origins through the Middle English consideren and the Latin considerare, both meaning "in the company of the stars", thence the Latin sidus (or sideris) meaning a star or cluster of stars. At the beginning of our etymological adventures is the Proto-Indo-European (PIE) root form *sweid meaning to shine. Other English words like constellation and sidereal are kin, the first describing a group of stars, and the latter meaning simply "starry" and by extension, celestial or heavenly.

Small wonder that we are given to considering, at least in the original sense of the word. Forged from the dust of ancient stars, we are probably never more true to ourselves or more in tune with our fundamental natures and inner light than when we are engaging in the liminal act of considering something thoughtfully. In doing so, we turn away from the mundane and profane and intuitively toward a bone deep and authentic connection with the cosmic dimension from which we emerged, and of which we are such miniscule components. Dancing motes in the eye of the infinite are we.

It's one thing to consider one's origins on a cold clear night when she can almost reach up and touch the moon and stars. It's another thing entirely to do so in late summer or early autumn when the sky is filled with clouds from here to there, and she can hardly see hand or lens, let alone sunlight, moonlight, stars or meteor showers. Having said that, who doesn't love a good fog? Days and nights on the cusp of the seasons dish up some splendid, atmospheric murks, and even when we can't see them, our starry kin are right up there over our heads and shining down on us. As Clarissa Pinkola Estes wrote:

"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."

On the Edge (II)

On the Edge

Wordless Wednesday - The Morning After

The Between Days

Here we are again, poised at the heart of the liminal interlude bookended every year by the Winter Solstice and a shiny new year only a few days away. These winter days are a precious (and much needed) breathing spell between the two holidays, and I like to think of them as the "between days". It seems as though 2021 just got here, but we are bidding it farewell and contemplating 2022 with all its unknown possibilities, adventures, trials and ordeals.  A few more adventures next year, and fewer ordeals, please.

Holiday shopping (what little there was of it) was wrapped and tucked under the little tree in good time this year.  A thousand and one cookies were made, and tins of homemade baking were delivered around the village. There was a splendid festive meal on December 25th, and the leftovers were sent home with dinner guests, the opening gambit in our usual Boxing Day doings. Gift bags, ribbons and wrapping have already been folded and put away for another time, and the silken rustle of the tissue as it was smoothed and pleated into neat squares was pleasing to the ear.

Now there is stillness in the little blue house, and after days of toing and froing, there is time for rest and reflection. Who knows what Beau and I will be doing on New Year's eve? With COVID numbers rising, there is a fair possibility that we will be home by ourselves and safely sequestered with candles, mugs of cider and gingerbread.

I made a lovely big pot of Bigelow's Constant Comment tea this morning, and the kitchen was filled with the fragrance of oranges and sweet spice. Snow sparkled through the south facing window, and the kitchen was filled with silvery dancing light. As we leaned against the counter and waited for the kettle to sing, it seemed to Beau and I that the most beautiful part of the holiday this year was the clamor and bustle in the kitchen as two grandsons and I put a fine seafood dinner together. There was laughter around the old oak table as we ate and endless cups of tea afterward, an eloquent silence in the garden at nightfall as light snow fell. We thought of my departed soulmate (the boys' beloved papa), and we sent him our love. Blessed be.

Wordless Wednesday - On the Edge

Friday Ramble - Edgy

This week's word has been around since the eleventh century, making its way down to us through the Middle English egge, the Old English ecg, the Old French aiglent and the Old Germanic ecke, all meaning "corner". It is also related to the Latin acer meaning "sharp", and the Greek akmē meaning "point". At the root of it all is the Proto-Indo-European (PIE) ak- meaning "sharp". Kindred words in the English language include acerbic, acid, acrid, acumen, acupuncture, acute, eager, ester, exacerbate, hammer and selvedge as well as eglantine (or sweetbriar), an old world rose known for its thorns.

An edgy time is this, for the old Celtic year is passing away, and we stand on the threshold of a brand new year, in the north a chilling contraption of fallen leaves and freezing earth, short days, darkness, frost and wind.

The eastern Ontario highlands always seem empty at this time of the year and rather lonesome. Except for Canada geese and a few intrepid herons, migratory birds have departed for warmer climes, and our favorite lake seems still and empty. Most of our wild forest kin are already hibernating or are thinking about doing it.

On rambles in the woods, the long shadows falling across our trail have edges as sharp as the finest examples of the blade smith's craft. The earth under our boots is firm, leaves are crunchy; puddles along our way are sometimes rimed with ice. For all the emptiness after birds migrate and woodland creatures drift into hibernation, frost and morning sunlight change our native place into something rich and elegant and inviting: glittering weed fronds artfully curved and waving in the fields, milkweed sculpted into arty  shapes, trees twinkling like stars, the edges of blackberry leaves rosy and sparkling with dew or frost crystals. The air is fragrant with cedar, spruce and pine.

These weeks always seem 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 is usually employed in describing subterranean matters and deities of the underworld. In using the word to describe something, we focus on what is deeper or within, rather than that which is apparent at first glance or merely 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.

By My Pond at Sunset