On the Last Day of the Year...

Here we are again in the solemn wintry fields going down to the lake.  It's the last day of December.  Deep blue snow blankets everything around us, trees, shrubs and weeds poking forth from the drifts in glassy chiming array.

There's sunshine and blue sky, clouds of spangled snow blowing like confetti across everything and coming to rest on whatever they meet on their journey - one can actually hear the snow flying about.  There's a wild enchantment in the cold air.  The last day of the calendar year rings like bells and dances in ecstatically in place.

Here on the vanished path are our footprints from yesterday and the day before and the day before that, possibly even from last year at this time.  The land remembers.  How often have we come here and just stood listening to falling snow and the sweep of the north wind across the shore?

Happy New Year to you and your kin.  May all good things come to you.

Sweet Nectar in My Cup

Foggy By the River

Wearing Winter Stars

 

Common Starling
(Sturnus vulgaris)

One of my favorite winter birds, the starling is not native to North America. It was introduced in the nineteenth century by newcomers who had a passion for Shakespeare and longed for a bit of the old country in their new homeland. After a few centuries on this continent, they have adjusted and are as native as any feathered settler can ever be, populating the new world in the hundreds of thousands, if not in millions.

Noisy, exuberant and sociable to a fault, starlings travel in large flocks, often in company with blackbirds and grackles, and one always knows when they are about. They are clowns, but they are also gifted songsters with remarkable repertoires of whistles, warbles and trills, and they are superb mimics, often perching in trees in springtime and imitating the voices of song sparrows, robins and and thrushes.   I have spent many an hour in April looking high and low for a robin when a starling was pretending to be one and thought it was a fine joke.

When most other birds have done the sensible thing and headed south, starlings remain in the snowbound north, and they stay around all through the long white season, livening our days with their operatic performances, their rude jokes and their cavorting .

I love them because they are bold and sassy, because they are trickster birds, because they have bright yellow beaks and wear beautiful glossy stars in winter.

Friday Ramble - Last of the Year

It seems appropriate to start this last ramble of the year with a ray of sunshine falling on the Clyde river in the Lanark highlands.  Ice and snow are slow in forming at this bend - the river is an old one, and her currents run fast and free. She's a wild spirit, a veritable crone among rivers and not the slightest bit intimidated by winter and subzero temperatures - she will resist freezing over as long as she is able to draw breath and tempt the long white season with her impetuous winding ways.

On one of the coldest days of the year, I can stand on this slope and listen as the river sings her way along under the ice.  At times, she seems to be singing a duet with the wind, and there's a kind of Zen counterpoint at work, two unbridled entities utterly independent in their contours and rhythm, but meticulously interwoven and seamless in their harmonies. Putting all notions of complex orchestration and liquid choreography aside, there's lovely music in the air on such icy winter days. The sound of moving water is (and always has been) a leitmotif in this old life of mine, and I sometimes think that my existence can be measured in rivers, currents and little woodland streams rather than cocktails, jewelry, pairs of shoes and coffee spoons. This is the right place to be standing on the trailing edge of the calendar year.

In springtime, I watched the willows on the other side turn golden yellow, a little later as the river overflowed her banks and published her claim to the fertile fields on both sides. In summer, I counted bales of hay, photographed deer and wild turkeys feeding, watched the sun go down over the same old willows on the farther shore.  I have wept here many times when someone I love passed beyond the fields we know, once for hours when my sweet Cassie trotted across the Rainbow Bridge. This old river has seen it all.

This is where I tried to collect my thoughts when a crucial medical therapy stopped working a few years ago, and that happened again just a few months ago.  I wasn't worried about shuffling off the mortal coil either time - was certain I would be back in some form or other (a leaf, a twig, a small stone, a clod of earth?).  I was unraveling from the strain of endless medical "toing and froing" though, and I thought I might pass out of the great wide world as mad as a hatter, not a dignified departure by any stretch of the imagination.  The river worked her magic that day and knitted me back together again, but she did it to her own pattern, and it could be reasonably argued that I am a little wilder now, a little more peculiar than I was before.

Thank you for sharing Friday rambles with me this year. May we share many more of these potterings in the shiny new year that is waiting for us just around the bend.

Thursday Poem - Clearing

I am clearing a space

here, where the trees stand back.

I am making a circle so open

the moon will fall in love

and stroke these grasses with her silver.

I am setting stones in the four directions,

stones that have called my name,

from mountaintops and riverbeds, canyons and mesas

Here, I will stand with my hands empty,

mind gaping at the moon.

I know there is another way to live.

When I find it, the angels

will cry out in rapture,

each cell of my body

will be a rose, a star.

If something seized my life tonight,

if a sudden wind swept through me,

changing everything,

I would not resist.

I am ready for whatever comes.

But I think it will be

something small, an animal

padding out of the shadows,

or a word spoken so softly

I hear it inside.

It is dark out here, and cold.

The moon is stone.

I am alone with my longing.

Nothing is happening

but the next breath, and the next.

Morgan Farley

On This Day, Good Wishes

Merry Christmas, Happy Yule!

Whatever form your own observances and festivities take this day, there are good wishes are flowing your way - they are carried on an icy north wind out of Canada, attended by clouds of cavorting snowflakes and tinkling icicle chimes.

May there be light and music in your life.
May all good things come to you.

Scribbling One's Way Along

In the middle of the night, one awakens with a truly chilling thought.  What if she has forgotten something or someone, neglected to carry out some holiday task or other?  What if her free range organic Christmas turkey breast (and all the stuff that goes with it) is a complete fiasco and does not turn out as hoped?  What if ice and snow prevent guests from getting out of their homes, if they fall or have an accident on the way over to the little blue house in the village?  In predawn darkness, one's unsettled mind worries, frets, ponders and spins like a tiny unknown planet somewhere beyond the rim.

Well.... there is a fine and noble list, clipped to the refrigerator with a magnet and getting longer by the hour.  There is a telephone to use in contacting guests and offering to provide alternative ways for them to get to our threshold.  There is e-mail.

Somewhere in the midst of all the toings and froings, I looked down at my list yesterday and was seized with what can only be described as a moment of fleeting eccentric pleasure, at the lovely thick lined paper I was writing on, at my old Waterman pen and how it felt in my hand, at the color of the ink and the effortless way it was flowing onto the page, even the sound of the nib caressing the paper. In hectic times, such small pleasures are something vivid, graceful and unexpected, a comfort in one's life.  They are also a powerful reminder that things usually turn out somehow, if not as one expects they will, then certainly as they should.

Seeing Stars

Star Anise (Illicium verum)

Perhaps it has something to do with the season - this looking for and finding stars in all sorts of likely and unlikely places - snowflakes, apples and pomegranates, anise in the spice cupboard (one of my favorite seasonings), lights on the holiday tree in the study, jeweled and tinseled twinklings on the Yule wreaths adorning a thousand and one front doors in the village.

Then there are the stars on long, clear, cold and cloudless winter nights - at times they seem so close that one could gather them up in handfuls and paint the world with them.  No wait, Lady Winter is already doing just that with her ice and snow and frost, and she is doing it better than I ever could.

The region of the summer stars is grand stuff in its appointed time and season, but oh, these spangled winter nights...  Shivering in the garden, I remember something Carl Sagan said, and I smile. "We are a way for the universe to know itself. Some part of our being knows this is where we came from. We long to return. And we can, because the cosmos is also within us. We're made of star stuff."

On clear winter nights, one can almost reach up and touch her starry ancestors and cousins up there in the sky, and it is always something special, every single time.  Surrounded by kin in the night, my spine tingles, and I can hear my breath going in and out, feel my slowly thrumming heartbeat.   For a moment or two, there's a delicious sense of community with everything around me. What a journey this lifetime is turning out to be, what a trip.  Emaho!

Yule Tidings

Friday Ramble - Yule

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

Tomorrow is the shortest day of the year in the northern hemisphere, and one of only two occasions in the annual cycle when the sun seems to stand perfectly still for a brief interval.  That is just what the word "solstice" means, that the sun is standing still.  The sun (of course) doesn't move at all, and it is we and our planet who are in ever turning motion around the star at the center of our universe.

"Yule" is one of those words which seems to have been around forever.  First we have the Middle English yole, then the Old English gel (or geola), referring to an old pre-Christian feast lasting twelve days and celebrated around the time of the winter solstice on December 21 (tomorrow). That Norse or Germanic festival later became "the twelve days of Christmas.  The Middle and Old English forms of this week's word are likely related to the Old Norse jōl, the Swedish jul, and the Gothic jiuleis], all possibly originating in a Proto-Indo-European (PIE) root meaning "to go around," perhaps referring to the turning of the year from darkness back into light.

The eve of this magical turning back toward sunlight and warmth is the best of times for stillness and reflection, and so we are spending it quietly, or as quietly as frenetic holiday times permit. It is rather cold for a fire on the shore of the lake this year, but there will be a trip out to the woods, and time spent among the snow capped highland cedars and spruces. There will be grain and apples and freshly cut cedar browse for the deer, suet cakes and seed for the birds, gifts of wine, maple syrup and heirloom family fruitcake to friends.  Then it's home to fresh salmon, risotto and greens, followed by music, firelight, candlelight and gallons of tea.  A sorely injured left knee will not permit dancing this year, but from my favorite old Morris chair, I shall be tapping my foot and my cane to whatever festive music is on the CD player.

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

Thursday Poem - At the Winter Solstice

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.

By the Fence

Somehow or other, one never tires of looking at the lattices of a weathered cedar fence all wrapped up in the granular stuff of winter, at ice coating a branch or the gently rounded contours of a snowy tump in the woods.

One would think that there are fewer things about to capture photos of in winter, but it isn't so, and morning by morning, my memory card fills up with frozen scenery, then the images make their way into this computer to be cropped and sized before occasionally appearing online or on a greeting card.

It's a calm and quiet world this day, but beyond the windows is a deep paralyzing cold that goes right to the bone. There is really no need to use words to describe everything when my camera says it all in sweet blue silence. When strung together, my bumbling words are inadequate and redundant, but such is life, and that is fine too.  Sometimes, the task consists simply of getting out of one's own way.

Snow and Sky Together

Calling the Sun Home

Outside the windows, snow is falling, falling, falling, and an icy wind prowls through the gutters, shaking the eaves of the little blue house in the village, coating the bare trees with meringue and discharging clouds of white into the air.

I pull the draperies closed and banish the darkness 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 these times are, there is light around the next bend in this winding old road - in only a week or so, days will start to lengthen.  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, pomegranate wreaths and swags, candles, music and mulled cider to drive away the darkness and welcome old Helios back to the world. The Lord of Light is still here and dancing in his appointed place, but the seasonal wobble of the Old Wild Mother (Earth) makes him seem more distant than he is at this time of the year.  It is we and the hallowed earth who are in constant spinning motion, and not the magnificent star at the center of our universe.

Between now and Yuletide, I light a special candle each Sunday at dusk in the timeless observance called the Solstice (or Advent) Sun Wheel. The tradition was initiated many years ago by the late Helen Farias and is continued every year by my soul sisters, Joanna Powell Colbert, Beth Owlsdaughter and Waverly Fitzgerald, to name just a few radiant woman spirits.  It warms me to think that in lighting my golden beeswax pillar as the sun goes down, I join a grand and gently glowing circle of friends and kindred spirits in honoring the fruitful darkness and calling the sun home.

Do you have a seasonal observance of your own?  Elderly magpie creature that I am, and ever a passionate collector of timely lore, I would love to hear about your own "before Yule" practices and customs.

Thursday Poem - Lines for Winter

Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.

Mark Strand, from Selected Poems

Wordless Wednesday - Standing on the Edge

The Tinkling Wood

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

It has been cold enough in the last few days that at times we are unable to break through the ice crust when we are walking along deer trails in Lanark - crunchy going all the way. The forest is a noisy place to be in such weather, a wide 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 performs a symphony as it goes along. The instruments are organic, and the principal notes tinkles and chimes, rattles and creaks, groans and falling ice. Mama Gaia (the Old Wild Mother) is the original scribe, the primal composer of all musics, cosmic, refulgent and terrestrial.

This morning, a small cameo appearance from the doddering scribe/photographer of this patchwork realm.  Near the end of a calendar year, there is something reckless, daring and rather appealing about the idea of showing up here, 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. Call it a birthday image of sorts.

Winter Sun Rising

Sally's Angel Spreads Her Wings

Every year, Sally's angel spreads her wings in the brightly illuminated window of an upscale boutique downtown, and there she stays until January sales begin. She was created years ago by an acquaintance who manages the enterprise in question and is also a gifted and imaginative window designer by trade.  The main part of the figure is an old department store mannequin.  The wings are stiffened netting on a wicker framework, and the scallops on the wings are sewn in gold thread.

I always watch for the angel's appearance as a harbinger of retail initiatives here, but I've never been able to take a decent photo because of the narrow, deep and very recessed window, the angle and spread of the halogen pot lights in the shop, the unusual way daylight seems to strike the glass out front at any time of day. Here she is anyway, in all her winged, gilded and poinsettia bedecked glory. If you look closely, you can see the boutique's name spelled out (backwards of course) on the right side of the photo.The tiny dancing white disks in the photo are snow.

Sally's angel is classically beautiful and attired in a flowing Fortuny-ish gown, but she lacks expression, and she doesn't seem happy to be spending yet another holiday interval (her eleventh tour of duty, I think) artfully posed in a boutique window to entice holiday shoppers inside.  As tedious as the whole exercise may be, she does her thing faithfully and without complaint for a month or two before being wrapped up in a sheet and put away in the back room until next Christmas rolls around.  Perhaps I will be able to talk Sally into painting a smile on the lady's face one of these years.

As bored as the angelic lady is, I shall be sad to see her go next month, replaced by a display with towering rubber palm trees and little papier-mâché boats extolling the pleasures of winter Caribbean cruises, diaphanous caftans and funky bathing suits in neon colors.  By contrast, here is red and white and gold in a perfect seasonal arrangement.

Standing on the Edge

Wordless Wednesday - Snow in Island Park

In the Generous Lap of Winter

In the iron grip of another winter, we sometimes go into hibernation mode like bears, become insular, freeze up, close down and turn inward, away from the bitter season of long nights and the cold reality outside the windows.

We lock doors, pull draperies shut and crank up the heating apparatus, light a fire and huddle around the hearth, muttering about the state of the larder and our stash of firewood. We wait for days to lengthen again and the light to return. We do our best to tune out the presence of a season we look forward to for its crystalline beauty, but would prefer to be without once it arrives. It was ever thus.

There are things we do not remember in winter, and things we fail to understand. We forget the cold clear water flowing effortlessly along under all the ice and snow. We forget that fallen leaves trapped within the ice and snow were once green and living things, and that they will provide compost or nourishment for trees and leaves still to come. We focus grimly on moving snow out of our way, and we fail to understand that snow itself is an integral part of our path, that next year's leaves, flowers and fruit are sleeping snugly somewhere underneath it all.

Sometimes, a simple wild and organic truth comes flooding back into one's senses like the north wind or a fast running river, and even the slumbering trees seem to echo that truth as one looks up at their perfect snowy arches against the sky.  There is so much to see that my eyes and lens are not sure where to go and what to focus on:  Sky, sunlight, clouds, shadows, branches, roof, icicles???

However one feels about the long white season, to be here and truly present in winter is something special. This is the Old Wild Mother's creation, an interval of fruitful darkness in which new life, new ideas and new paths are conceived. Now and again, I pause in my travels (and neverending shoveling) to remember the Spring already on its way and the new life sleeping somewhere down under my winter boots, but most of the time, I forget.  Whether the forgetfulness is something to do with my age, my tendency to get all wrapped up in the colors and shapes I am seeing, or just part of an elemental human condition, I haven't figured out.

Here We Are, Again

Blue at the Break of Day

There is snow on the ground this first morning of December, but temperatures are definitely in the minuses.  It is cold and windy.

An icy wind rolls through the gutters and dances up the street. It ruffles snow in the hedgerows and swirls through the eaves of the little blue house in the village; it careens around corners, rattling the windows and furiously trying door latches in an effort to gain entry.

On such perfect blue days, it is almost a travesty to go walking around outside and disturbing the pristine snow expanses with our blundering footprints, but off we go at first light to see what we can see. We go out against the wind, warmly dressed and sensibly shod, but ardent of spirit, curious and open to whatever the day holds out for our consideration.  The first thing we notice, Spencer and I, is that the wide fields above the river are deserted.  Weary of freezing temperatures and wind and frustrated by their now frozen food supply, the geese have flown south.  Their early departure harbingers a long cold winter this time around.

Then there are the wide expanses of blue before our eyes.  Blue.... everything is blue this morning: river, sky and drifting clouds, old trees in their cloaks of popcorn snow, pools wearing skims of ice, village chimneys yielding up smoke. Who knew there were so many shades of blue in the world?