Winter Solstice 2016 (Yep, It's Dark.)

Winter Solstice Chant - Poem of the Day: By Annie Finch

Poetry for the Esbat: Darkness Moon, 2016

Almost there, sister.
Waxing Moon, June 2016.

There are no words. No words to explain my delight in this Sky, this sprawling, Dark, Night, Sky...

Tonight I receive many, many messages & images from friends & my beloved. Tonight they are celebrating the Summer Solstice in that typically modern Pagan way -- on the most convenient weekend. They are also celebrating the Solstice Alaska-Style: in the endless daylight. 

Tonight, 

here in the yawning Desert,

under the sable cloak of Night,

I find myself not missing it.

Not at all.

Tonight, in the company of crickets, I photographed the Moon. But first, I sat on the porch of the house (the one that stole my heart so many years ago) & waited. It took awhile. She had been playing coy behind the clouds. It doesn't matter really. I am patient. Besides, the Darkness is enough for me. Had She never left Her coverlets, I still would have left satisfied. 

Yesterday, while washing dishes to avoid the heat, I was reflecting on the raw thrill of the Darkness; the vulnerability & the opening of the imagination which only being doused & disoriented by the Dark can introduce. So I was very pleased to recover this Esbat's poem from my lengthy favorites list on my phone's Poetry Foundation App (yes, I recognize this app thing is cliché) this evening. Things always seem to fall together just as they should, no?

I know there are a variety of rich & thoughtful literary interpretations for the following piece. But, I personally like to take it at face value -- with a very uncomplicated ear & heart. I like to think it's really just about the Darkness & being a goofy human, completely & hopelessly maladapted to nocturnal living & literally smacking your face into a tree. Then, perhaps, with practice, patience & some caution, finding your bat's wings. I find that interpretation most satisfying actually.

We grow accustomed to the Dark - (428) by Emily Dickinson

We grow accustomed to the Dark - 

When light is put away - 

As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp

To witness her Goodbye - 

A Moment - We uncertain step

For newness of the night - 

Then - fit our Vision to the Dark - 

And meet the Road - erect - 

And so of larger - Darknesses - 

Those Evenings of the Brain - 

When not a Moon disclose a sign - 

Or Star - come out - within - 

The Bravest - grope a little - 

And sometimes hit a Tree

Directly in the Forehead - 

But as they learn to see - 

Either the Darkness alters - 

Or something in the sight

Adjusts itself to Midnight - 

And Life steps almost straight. 

Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends. 

Wandering: Desperate Circus

Twilight over the Cook Inlet.

With some trepidation I escorted my complicated companion to revisit the Place where Herne has made Himself recognized.

This was very much like a clown show or an early (or late) Trick or Treat: one behemoth of a Norseman "Pirate," one black hooded "Witch" & what might best be characterized as Professor Snape from the Harry Potter series.

Carrying three bottles of mead, a shillelagh, a very large Oath Ring (from a tug boat line) & a drinking horn, I confess that I felt a bit sheepish in the daylight as hikers & tourists looked upon us with complete confusion. As they should.

This was not the time for Herne-hunting. I knew this well enough, but sometimes people are so desperate for connection that you just hold their hand & do your best at the art of damage control.

Along the arduously disorganized & delayed trek, many trees were loved & libated. Many words exchanged that would soon be forgotten. Don Quixote himself may have been channeled.

This was a messy excursion by anyone's standards. 

As I squatted along the edge of the trail & listened to the one-eyed bear of a man extracting my slender, aching friend from the disappointingly vacant darkness of the forest, I could only say to myself, "This is not the Way..."

But what isn't one person's Best Night might be another's. Later, I found myself alone in the still silence, facing Twilight, admiring the expanse of Sea & Sky divided by the horizon, unsure which side was the real side. Really, it didn't matter.

And when I crept back through the dimming light to rejoin my party, I found them seated at the edge of the bluff, framed by sinewy trees & silhouetted against the golden horizon. From their deepest hearts & bellies they sang "Helvegen" in bittersweet harmony. I was enchanted -- it was just... breathtakingly beautiful. (Had it not been completely inappropriate, I would have secreted out my phone & filmed it.)  

I sat witness to this poignant scene until my legs cramped & my nose ran from the cold. I was finally relieved to see the Heathen's bulky shape rise & turn to me. Now would be the time to complete my own Work.

Down to the water we went, leaving the saddest member to wait on the bluff. He could never have managed the descent. The large man who followed me down the familiar trail was nothing graceful himself, sliding on the ice & crashing through the naked undergrowth. I could have managed very well alone, but we are trained as women in this society to distrust the condition of alone-in-the-dark (even when realistically, it might be the safer -- for everyone). 

The tide was high & the Ice ran right up to the water, dropping off abruptly. It made for awkward gyrations, but I did my cleansing & offerings as though atop an ice float at the edge of the smoothest Ocean surface imaginable. My dips made arcs which replicated across the water ad infinitum, playing the shadow against the last of the light. Nyx's starry cloak was surprisingly clear, in spite of the yellowing Anchorage glow. Perfect.

I was expedient, but not unceremonious. In general, I Work from the hip & this instance was no different.

In short time we returned to the bench on the bluff, only to find that our companion had disappeared, leaving the horn crushed, a bottle shattered & the Oath Ring cast aside. He was to have his own adventures, or misadventures, to which we (mercifully) would not be witness.

There is a very fine line between opening up & forcing the doors. Most of us have managed to err on the side of boorish & unproductive from time to time. Yet I find that the gods will still give us chances.

The trick is to learn from, not repeat, these mistakes & never to presume that we can force a "mystical experience." 

***

Today, idling in the chill winds of an incoming storm, I stood alone with my brooding friend in a different forest. In the aftermath, I recalled to him the events of the evening which had been hopelessly lost to him. As I mentioned his entreaty to Herne -- how he stopped at precisely the right place, poured his mead & entered his own lonely chaos -- he nudged me & said, "Do you see the moose?" Looking up, I spotted a long legged beauty, making her way around the Alder only a short distance from us. She watched us calmly, intently & we remained silent as she unhurriedly wandered around & away.

I looked up at him & said, "See, you just mention Herne & there you go."

The (sometimes desperate) path
of so many secrets.

Euthanasia: Priceless Gift from the Gods.

Yes. I said it.

Copperplate Nr. 21 from John Flaxman's Iliad, 1973.
Hypnos & Thanatos carry the body of Sarpedon.

I don't pretend to have any answers regarding the "True nature" of the gods. I simply choose to relate in my own personal, often very private way. 

Besides, I am not so sure it really matters much, as long as we are true to how we hold Them in our hearts. 

Whatever They may be -- spirits, ideas, incarnate beings, constructs, archetypes or concrete entities -- there are times when my gratitude for the gift of Their existence (regardless of Their "True nature") is so immense I find myself at a loss for words, gesture, offering.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

Fear & Suffering are my biggest hangups.

I cannot bear either. I can bear them even less when someone I love is in Fear or in Suffering.

When the condition of Suffering becomes permanent & incurable, having the option of calling upon the merciful intervention of the children of Nyx, the brothers Hypnos & Thanatos (in that order) is nothing less than priceless. 

Why do we withhold this from ourselves when we give & gain so much relief & comfort from employing Their temperate, humane skills for our beloved nonhuman companions? 

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

I tell a friend that I have just helped the Skeleton Cat die -- in my arms -- because her hindquarters were wasted & she could not walk, or use the bathroom without assistance while an aggressive tumor was working its way out in several directions from behind her eye. Yet her wits were still 100%... my little fighter. 

I could not bear it.

My friend tells me, "That's what happened to my dad. It was hell." 

Dad had to live on in Suffering.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

Whether we choose to recognize it or not, the choice to die at the right time, as each individual deems it, is a gift. (It ought to be a right.)

"Drugs are bad," our culture says -- yet we force our people, our beloved ones, to live their last days, weeks, months, years dependent on opiates & other narcotics because we will not permit them the final dignity, the gift, of choice, of mercy, of endings. 

In the refrigerator we have a pharmacy bag filled with tiny, abandoned syringes, each one bearing a Skeleton Cat sized dose of feline-formulated morphine. They will never be used -- she has left them behind.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

This is obviously not a casual decision. Making this call on behalf of my beloved, my best girl, was traumatic & one of the most crushing tasks of my lifetime. But it was still a gift. 

She was a gift. 

Her merciful death was also a gift, not that I would choose to trade. 

Except that I did. 

For her welfare, for her dignity & because I love her enough to give her that immeasurable & unpopular gift. 

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

I very rarely petition the gods, but I made two special requests this past month: First, I asked Mother Nyx for Her ancient, dispassionate wisdom. "Please, please help me recognize when it is the right time..." I asked, fearing my emotions would cloud my judgement. Second, when I knew it was the right time, I asked that Hypnos & Thanatos kindly guide my baby girl into the soft, quiet Darkness of the Abyss.

What ensued, on all accounts, was a gracious, waveless series of events culminating in the uncomplicated, compassionate end of my beautiful friend. How do I thank the gods for this?

Good Morning Moon.

Just another morning with the Moon. November 2014.

Steeped in Darkness we are.

"Good morning, Moon!" This may be among the few blessings of this time of year in the far North.

We wake in complete Darkness, save for human luminaries, of course.

We deliver the children to school in Darkness, save for human luminaries, of course.

And we pass the sliver of daylight hoping the Sun might make headway through the clouds, if even for a brief moment. Then we relish it. 

Or at least I do.

Making Time with the Winter Sun. Moma Fauna.

The merciful Whomevers have thrown us a bone & it has been unseasonably warm. And despite the ominous undertones of that climate indicator, I am thankful for the respite from sub-zero temperatures because I just wasn't made for this.

I am a desert critter, but I am here for Love.

And with that thought, I will whisper to the Moon secrets & stories of Love because She is Here is Her Fullest presence at this time, all day, most every day.

And it is most appropriate that I return to writing with Her at the forefront because She was & is the impetus for this whole Thing, whatever it is or will become. 

And I would offer some POETRY this day, but it seems I just uninstalled my Poetry Foundation App in a fit of spaztic finger flailing & since I seem to have merged like the Borg with my little know-it-all phone, I am now at a loss for (other people's poetic) words.

Maybe then, just one. 

Love.


Blessings & Love to you this Esbat, my friends.

Quoth the Fungi: "Evermore." (We Own You.)

Oh, so much never said about our last trespass in the Hight Desert, thanks in large part, to recollections on a ceremony in the Boreal Forest.

Ah, well. Sometimes the dreaded Detail is an imperative.


But now a brief reflection on experiences recently past among the spirits of arid places...

Earthstar Fungus (Geaster spp.)

I wanted to take the children up to the family getaway & rangeland restoration project area for a second visit since the Place is so supremely beautiful -- from micro to macro.

 Peeking through the Indian Ricegrass (Oryzopsis hymenoides). What do we see?

The prettiest, most tenacious things around.

Cactaceae spp.

Cactaceae spp.

Gambel Oak (Quercus gambelii) with a Cynipid wasp gall?

Red Harvester Ant (Pogonomyrmex barbatus) mound.

Indian Paintbrush (Castilleja scabrida).

Salvia, Artemesia spp.?

Ponderosa Pine (Pinus ponderosa).

In the distance, The Aquarius Plateau.

So we packed the tent & a dinner destined for the engine block with the hopes of drinking in the rich Darkness of Night, the starry spill of the Milky Way & the haunting cries of the coyote. Dawn would bring a list a GPS coordinates to follow -- a Red Harvester Ant (Pogonomyrmex barbatus) scavenger hunt, without the scavenging.

But the Desert (or was it the Sky?) had other plans & after the splendor of the setting Sun,

Sun setting behind the Aquarius Plateau.

The Clouds began with their games.

Building pillared temples in the Sky,

And playing the trickster by pouring down uncharacteristically languid, Earth-soaking showers, blotting out the Night sky.

So much rain, that in the early hours of the morning, my father came to fetch us from our waterlogged shelter beneath a copse of Pinyon Pines...

The clay road would soon become impassable.

Wet gear flying into the bed of the truck, hot water on the stove to cut the chill. The eldest child shouts, "Moma, an EARTHSTAR!" 

Ah, I get it now. You own me. You own us.

Wherever we go, you will be there.

And sometimes you will call us home, from one home to another -- when it it time for us to revel in your season.

I depart with a deep, aching sadness, but I recognize full in my marrow, the Hunt is on.

For the Files: Finding Refuge in the Nightmare?

Dream notes to self, for the files:

I woke from what seemed to be a very long, strangely significant dream in the early a.m. April 12. Being a great lover of dreaming & sleep, I rarely take the time to write down dreams because I would rather resume the program. Occasionally however, the dreams seem to demand otherwise. This dream haunted me as awakened. It haunted me as I attempted to return to sleep. It felt like I had received an important message. It contained several people I know in this life, which is unusual. It contained symbolic references to some matters at hand in my community, but more importantly, it also seems to have some bearing on my relationship to Morpheus -- a relationship for which I maintain a blend of gratitude & ambivalence. I could not find my notebooks in the dark, so notes ended up scrawled in coloured pencil in my child's sketchbook. This is what I wrote, for the files:

Night (only fragments of memory remaining)

• The High Priest is here.
• I am outside a greenhouse-like tent aglow in the dark. It is filled with people in celebration of some kind... a wedding? a festive dinner party? 
• No. It is a church revival, a jubilee. 
• The H.P. tells me to stay outside, safe in the dark. He will go inside & take care of what needs to be done.
• We all (who else?) stay in this area overnight, awaiting Sunrise in some kind of dormitory. (I stay in dormitories more often than not in my dreams.)

Morning

• The High Priest & High Priestess are here.
• Where is my family?!? Where is my husband, where are my children?
• There is no response via cell phone. 
• Cold, cold, so cold with fear. Something is wrong (my husband is never without his phone).
• I must, we must find them. 
• Maybe they went to NoHo (an abbreviation for Northampton, Massachusetts).
• In NoHo, we watch people, families go by, searching for mine.
• People keep trying to help, offering me children who are passing by. "No, no, no, they are not mine," I say.
• I recall thinking that NoHo is really nice & that we should visit here as a family, bring the kids here someday...

In the Bank (the transition from NoHo, if there was one, was lost)

• I am alone.
• I am in line to conduct important business.
• The three bank tellers keep switching stations. Lines continually form & re-form, following their seemingly random repositioning. I keep losing my place.
• I am in a hurry, desperate to finish business & find my family. 
• I am very aware that this is a foreign town -- aware of being an outsider & I sense a mild antagonism, or suspicion towards me, especially each time the lines re-form & positions change.
• People in line become increasingly hostile in general & I try to remain unobtrusive. 
• The security guard locks the doors & dims the lights, signaling that the bank will be closing soon for lunch break. I ask if that means we will be served & I am told yes, they are completing transactions for people inside but are not taking any more customers until after lunch.
• The woman in front of me & to the left, a portly brunette in a short ponytail & plaid shirt turns around & gets in my face about people who drive big trucks & SUVs, insinuating that I am one of them. I tell her that I drive a station wagon. She diffuses into a thin, mature woman reminiscent of Nancy Reagan, wearing a madras dress with an oversized collar. She gives me a big hug. I find this unsettling, but do not betray my feelings.
• The lines re-form a final time, leaving me second in the far right line. 
• I notice that there are more people waiting in the bank than there were when the doors were locked. People are crowding in the line, they are crowding around me. They seem to have taken note of the shuffling of positions & I feel like some of them want my spot.
• All of the people are in black & white except for the two closest to me. One is a man in a green felt hat -- a tall, rounded gnome-style hat -- with a very full, rich brown beard & moustache & piercing brown eyes. The other is the woman in the madras dress.
• The woman in the madras dress has a smile that seems to be painted on her face (not literally) & she keeps hugging me. I was able to ignore it earlier, but now I feel like a cornered animal & her hugs feel vaguely violating. I say to her loudly --enough for others to hear -- but with control, "It is very sweet of you to want to hug me, but you know it is not normal to be putting your arms around strangers in a public place, don't you?" She seems to fade a bit & become less relevant. 
• The man brown & green man tells me, "I really like how you drop off the ladies at the bookstore every day." His words are carried in a lascivious tone & he is leering without actually leering. The implications are clear enough to me. Everyone is staring, listening, waiting for my reply. Once again, I feel cornered. I am angered by him, but I remain controlled. "I'm sorry, but you have the wrong person. I do not live here. I am from the North, from lizard country."
• I see a map. The North country is dappled with places & land features named after lizards, their reptilian kin & their prehistoric ancestors. Looking at the map, I notice that its shape & borders are reminiscent of the state of Wyoming. I know that this place is very familiar, but it is not my own. For the sake of protection, I am lying.
• Phobetor. (It comes to my mind clearly & with force.)
• I tell the brown & green man (or, at least I think to tell him) that I am from Phobetor, or the kingdom thereof. I know that this man will recognize this place. He will also not be of it. I know that it will carry implications which will keep me safe. I know this word, but I cannot remember what it means. I know it is important, very important. I struggle to remember, but I cannot grasp the meaning. It does not matter now, as long as I am safe.

Something wakes me -- my baby, my bladder, something. I hear "Phobetor" echoing in my ears. Disoriented & confused, I get out of bed & use the restroom. I check the time. It is 2:22. I attempt to return to sleep, but the dream & it's symbols do not allow for it. I blunder about the house in search of a notepad which I will not find because I suddenly feel a powerful need to return to the bedroom. This dream has left me afraid of the dark.

On Phobetor: Phobetor is one of the Oneiroi, the dark-winged daimones or spirits of dreams. Ovid states that the gods call him I'celos, but men call him Phobetor: "...here below the tribe of mortals call him Phobetor." (Metamorphoses 11. 585) Phobetor means "to be feared" & he is the shaper of dreams which come to man, hence his name. He is brother to Morpheus, but unlike his brother who assumes the shapes of men, Phobetor "...forms the beasts and birds and the long sliding snakes." (Metamorphoses 11. 585)

"Phobetor," by Italian artist, Beatrice Riva.
Discovering this piece chilled my blood by a few degrees --
here is the face of the brown & green man in my dream.

Poetry for the Esbat: Unfolding Moon, 2013

Esbats. 
'Round & round we go... Through the Darkness & into the Light... 'Round & 'round.

A Moon Priestess: "Unknown Woman" by Julia Margaret Cameron.
Image from the Victoria & Albert Museum collections.

Last year, I used the "Wolf Moon" moniker to designate this Full Moon which arrives in January. At the time, I was not thinking about bioregional naming, or I would have tossed the Wolf for Coyote. I was in Utah, after all. Cold Moon, Storm Moon, Snow Moon, Wolf Moon... they all have meaning to the human experience during these Winter nights.

As I have mentioned many times before, there are many Full Moon names to be found at the following sites: Farmers' Almanac, WWUP, NASA, FAandPP & SPACE. All these names tell human stories of culture & place. Personally, I am drawn to the Kalapuya name "Stay Inside Moon," mostly because that is what I would do if I didn't know that I must go outside, no matter what. However, this Moon-naming exercise is about being personal & relevant, so co-opting the Kalapuya name misses the mark. 

An early afternoon Winterscape with Ice.

In his Times article, "The Longest Nights," author Timothy Eagan asserts that "creativity needs a season of despair." I also believe that there are introspective & creative benefits to the Winter's Darkness. At this time, many of us find ourselves reentering musty, dark cellars brimming with long forgotten ideas. We reach deep inside our bowels to examine those feelings we so carefully wrapped & tucked away beneath layers of social convention. Somehow, some of us are even fortunate enough to reclaim time. Our beloved Sun drives us like bees. When His pressing rays no longer leave us feverish, there seems to be less demanding & more pausing... We take all the visions & feelings & time & we change, shape, transform, create.

What do I call this? Introspection Moon? Gestation Moon? Creative Moon? Not this time. This year I shall call Her "Unfolding Moon," which suggests a creative bloom & also hints at the subtle stepping towards spring. More than this, "Unfolding Moon" speaks of transformation & development which is where I find myself this season... & a bit to my surprise, already well underway. 

I find I am focusing more intently on developing tradition. Meaningful rhythm, symbolism & action are slowly rising to the surface of my consciousness. From these pieces, I strive to create an ensemble. Our small symbolic & ceremonial pieces are reflections which parallel units of the universal Whole. Bit by bit, the fabric reveals a pattern -- a pattern that makes perfect sense.

Recently, the central element of this process has been a conscious movement away from silent, internal spiritual discourse, to external expression through voice & movement. I need my body to begin manifesting what I feel. My mind is no longer satisfactory as the sole instrument through which I demonstrate my admiration, praise & thanks. 

"So Doll and the cow danced the 'Cheshire round,
Til the pail was broke and the milk ran on the ground."
(Not unlike myself at dance.)
Image from Project Gutenberg: The Nursery Rhyme Book

Form. Off I trot to dance lessons. Like an ox in a coin belt, I shall conjure unseen muscles: some long forgotten, others never before encountered. It is the humbling process of unfoldment. A slow-cooker torrefaction by inner Fire. 

Voice. Mental-thought-speak & stifled utterances fail me when I am moved by Joy, Beauty, Love... the internal monologue does not properly convey my ardor, or bliss. Harnessing voice is part of entering upon a whole-body-awakening. This is a dual duel with both bashfulness & biology.

A condition of the vocal chords limits my singing voice. Reservedness silences it. Nonetheless, I intend to sing to this month's poetry to the Lady Moon. It is a plan I expect to carry out, into the future. With regularity. I was unwittingly gifted the perfect song for this new tradition, but it had to be unremembered so that I might rediscover it when I was ready to understand it... 

Ah! Winter! "...reentering musty, dark cellars brimming with long forgotten ideas..." Or poetry.

White Magic: Mira Billotte & Doug Shaw.
Image from White Magic's MySpace.

Over a year ago I wrote about my friend Sol who, being founder of a punk music label in New York, has many opportunities to experience all kinds of musical talent. He had attended a memorial service for a friend at which the talented Mira Billotte sang with her graceful, gutsy, haunting, "baroque yowl." He said it remembered me to him -- not her voice, I am sure -- but rather the moods & landscapes she creates with her music. Mira Billotte is singer, songwriter & pianist for the band White Magic which seeks to invoke other worlds & reach alternate realities through music. About her music Billotte says:

"These songs fit well in a natural setting, and that's what a lot of them are about—landscapes and natural scenes. When I'm writing or playing I fall into a different world, my own world. The trance aspect of the music helps me get into that environment and invoke this whole other world." -- "Major Arcana, Effing the Ineffable: White Magic Summon Worlds," The Stranger

White Magic tends to perform outside the box, creating "weird, piano-driven trance-folk displaced from time and locale," sometimes presented as "meditative ceremonies of song, and ritual... within an improvised temple." Seriously, how much Goodness can you fit into one place?*

But... what does Ms. Billotte have to say about voice?

"I feel like voice is the purest instrument—it's straight from your mouth, it's straight from your emotions, and in my music it's coming from my unconscious, my inner world. I don't know how to explain it, but I follow that and it takes me to these places."  -- "Major Arcana, Effing the Ineffable: White Magic Summon Worlds," The Stranger

Oh, yes. My thoughts & hopes exactly.


The poetry for this Esbat is part of Mira's invocation at the opening of her Spira Mirabilis Mundi installation at Secret Project Robot in Brooklyn, Feb 4 2011. This piece makes so much sense to me now, on so many levels, that I am not even going to attempt to explain. I have transcribed the words to the best of my ability. The live Punkcast recording is embedded beneath. 


Golden Light, an invocation by Mira Billotte

Golden light
silver at night,
out in the forest,
shining on your face.

Day seems like Night
with Moonlight on your face.

Angel of Light
fills me with sight,
out in the forest,
shining on your face.

Angel of Night
fills me with sight,
out in the forest,
shining on your face.

What lies beyond the Magic Gate?
No need to know, for this is where we dwell.

Night seems like Day
with Moonlight on your face.

Mira Billotte: Golden Light

(I suggest you turn down/off your bass to help filter out ambient music from the adjacent gig.)

Blessings to you this Esbat my friends... 
Will you sing with me?


*I could really go on & on, so to keep the introduction manageable, an endnote: May I suggest you check out the White Magic samples at the iTunes store? I particularly like "Sun Song" & "Sea Chanty," both found on the Dat Rosa Mel Apibus album. If you are curious about set & setting, THIS VIDEO found on their MySpace page includes shots of their altar, circle of candles & lunar background set. Mira also has recorded a lovely cover of Bob Dylan's "As I Went Out One Morning" which can be found HERE. 

Mourning Moon: Back to Baking

"Cook for the Sun, bake for the Moon. This is what we do..."

Full Moon Sandwich Cookies.

Mourning Moon, Frosty Moon. Back to baking for the Esbats. Lady Moon posesses the sky now, so we bake. Even this morning, with its sky still dark as pitch & heavy with crystallized fog, there She was, hanging low in the Northwest as if to say, "Good morning! I'll see you again very soon... when He goes back to sleep." Yes, very soon indeed. The sunlit days are fleeting this far North.

For the offerings: Chocolate spice sandwich cookies with bittersweet & white chocolates, a glass of hot mulled cider with a cinnamon stick on the side (a splash of Tuaca makes this divine, but we withheld this night... it is too easy -- & too common in this place -- to drink the Darkness away). Hugs & grateful happiness. Children munching in coats & jammies, noses running. This night in the sharp cold, we hold our family very close & give thanks for the gift of togetherness. 

Then, into the car to buy catfood, cold treatments & (yet another) copy of the Book of the Law...

The Frosty Mourning Moon peeks through the birch trees, 2012.
(oh, but to have a tripod! such shivering in the Dark can foil the paparazzi!)

Poetry for the Esbat: Mourning Moon, Frost Moon 2012

"Sleep" by artist Louise C. Fenne
Image gratefully borrowed from A Polar Bear's Tale.

What a consistent creature I find myself to be! I selected "Solitude Late at Night in the Woods," by Robert Bly for this month's Esbat poetry, but something about it rang all too familiar. I consulted last year's post, Poetry for the Esbat: Mourning Moon 2011 & there is was. Ah, well, its words resonate so true for the Full Moon in this bioregion at this time of the year...

XVII The Moon
from The Love Tarot, by Liz Dean*

Once again, names abound for this month's Moon & I find myself under much pressure to address concerns outside this laptop, so the bioregional & historical analysis of Moons monikers for the month of November will have to wait for another year. This time, I am embracing two established names instead of creating my own -- Mourning Moon & Frost Moon. Normally, as indicated on my revamped "Wheel of the Year," this would be a period of waiting; waiting for the migration, waiting to fly, waiting to return home. I probably would have named it the "Waiting Moon," but this year is different. I find my heart is sad & achy. I am beginning to understand that how I define "home" is tied to place in temporal ways, spiritual too. It is painful to know I cannot fly home... Wings clipped, I sometimes wake in the night. Sleepless, I grieve.

In this way, the cursed Llewellyn calendar's name for this Moon is apt: they've dubbed it the "Mourning Moon." Like I mentioned last year, I don't know where this title came from, probably someone sitting around making up stuff at Llewellyn... (oh, wait, they don't do that, do they?) Dubious origins aside, it works. Having two names means I get two poems. The poetry-for-mourning is not about the Moon, but it does come from Nancy Willard's Household Tales of Moon & Water, my new perennial favourite. It is the very last poem in the book, a "Blessing for Letting Go." In this instance, the first three lines are all that I need:

"I pick up Sad,
I burn it, I scatter the ashes. 

Now be thou glad."

Let's leave it at that.

Frost: Sacred Geometry

As for the Frost Moon... this place is cold! Since Mother Hulda's Night, there has been very little snowfall & the temperatures have been frigid -- crisp, clear, rarely above the low teens (on the Fahrenheit scale). It is great weather to chase the Northern Lights, but so frosty on baby's feet & hands! When we walk, the snowpacked ground creaks & squawks like grouchy styrofoam. When we breathe, the air nips at our nostrils. It is dry, like my desert, but it is also very, very dark. It is the perfect incubation nest for Frost. Like an albino algal bloom, the Frost grows overnight, spreading, blanketing everything. Under the sharp Winter Sun, it abates. But when the Darkness returns & conditions give it opportunity to ripen, it returns. Again & again it returns & recedes...

I am wonderstruck by this creature Frost. I am amazed by all the many cold, dark creatures here, but as I sit by my "Happy Light," I long for the warm embrace of a Moonlit garden. With fireflies. So the poetry for this Esbat has been chosen not to reflect the present season, or even the present bioregion, but to scratch my itch for more paradisal environs. Taken from an obscure book entitled, A Pagan Anthology (a book of poems composed by contributors to The PAGAN Magazine), the poem "Moonrise," by Helene Thurston both feeds my need for images of sublime garden scenes & pays a magnificent tribute to our Lady Moon. May "Her face smile down upon the waiting world" this night.

"Moonrise," by Helene Thurston

Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends.

P.S. This is the smallest Moon of the year, but it comes with bonus penumbral eclipse. Look for it on the 28th. 


* XVII The Moon, from The Love Tarot, by Liz Dean seemed an aptly cool choice for this Esbat tarot. I purchased this Majors-only deck primarily for collage work, but I was also taken by the author's addition of the "three graces" cards. 

Art That Made My Day

At Rest, by Laura Marmash 2012

Mycophilia, Music, Mood, Musing, Meditation. 

Maybe it is just an excuse to alliterate, but I had the best day yesterday & I just really need to take note & thank Art.

I awakened, not really late or early, but somewhere in between. It was still dark. Before rising, I scrolled thru my reader on the phone to see all the new items I would not have time to read. New news from the The Dark Side of the Shroom caught my eye, prompting me to prop myself up & drag out the laptop. 

"Fruiting Bodies," Sculptural works by Laura Marmash:

lauramarmash.com

"The inspiration for Fruiting Bodies stems from my fascination with fungi, molds and spores. A mushroom is actually the fruiting body of the fungus, and designed to  emerge or “sprout” when the fungi is ready to reproduce. The mushroom itself is just a small part of the overall fungi, and can often signal the breakdown and eventual decay of the host. 

From this decay new life forms are created, and the cycle begins again."

Yes. 

Offering, by Laura Marmash 2012

Our gentle friend, DJ PapaLove -- who always feeds us so artfully with good food, music & company -- had just uploaded a new mix entitled "Natural Rhythms" the night before. The mix opens with an intense, edgy, maybe harsh clip of Rocky Balboa bellowing about struggle & survival, but then it releases you into a soft, dreamy dubstep which flows out into downtempo, contemplative rhythms. It made my day. It made my day perfect.

Awaken into darkness. Ease out gingerly, thoughtfully, into the light. Do not dwell.

It seems counterintuitive to begin with endings, decay, difficulty, darkness, struggle & survival, but it works. I stick with the things that work for me. I think the premise was well put by my erudite fleshworld friend Nestis when she commented in the last post, "Contemplating the doom of all that lives is what makes me brave enough to really live my life the way I want to. You spoke of people being flames last night... I think that is absolutely true. Burn bright - all the rest is ash."


Respect the darkness, but do not dwell. We do not belong to the Underworld, yet. Reflect, cherish, celebrate. Be strong. Burn bright.

For the Files: Notes on Nomad Meditations Week 2

"For there is a Beauty that hath no fitter ornament than Silence."

                                                                  -- Aleister Crowley

The altar exercise for Week 2 of the "Spiritual Nomad"lessons was to consider your altar items & place or replace three items on it. The objective of exercise was obviously to narrow down which items have them greatest spiritual significance or symbolic value. Of course, given my experience with the exercise last week (see: "Altars & Mushrooms & Other Revelations") this assignment placed me in a quandary. How can this soul-searching hominid improve upon a beautiful canyon, an open pasture & the star-dappled night sky? I find myself in agreement with Mr. Crowley once again -- there are some things which gain nothing from embellishment, addition or enhancement. 

So, I sought to consider what might enhance my meditative experience. I asked myself what items I always include on one of our transitory altars, be it for family, improv, holiday, etc. It seems to me that I consistently use incense, a candle, a vessel with water & a stone, salt, plant, animal or fungal material. The latter items abound at my Night Altar & need no additional representation. Quite instinctually, I determined that the water was to be brought to the altar in the vessel of my body. Thus, I began a ritual of drinking a full glass of fresh, cool water before stepping outside for my devotional. I have found this process particularly valuable. The first two items, the incense & candles, remained to be tested. These would be the two items that I would experiment with & carefully consider for the week's exercises.

My first night, I took a Chinese joss-stick outside with me. It was one of those pink & tan, low-smoke sticks which abound in Chinese markets -- we have been using them regularly in Sunrise "devotionals." However, I am ambivalent about this "low-smoke" variety of incense in general & I found it wanting. The second night, I took a candlestick & stub to my Night Altar. This was most unacceptable because it chased away the Darkness. I confess I was pleased when the wind took action -- where I lamely delayed -- mercifully snuffing out the flame halfway through the meditation. The third night I tried a Japanese Nippon Kodo "Koh." These are nice sticks & the Sandalwood is captivating, but without the bamboo core (or dish of sand), I kept breaking it on the frozen ground. I tried the Koh in Amber with a holder, but was uninspired. Finally, I used Greek "Livani" (Frankincense resin, or "tears") with charcoal in a burner. Not surprisingly, this was the best incense experience so far, although I may prefer a different resin. I will enjoy experimenting further with myrrh, benzoin, copal, dragon's blood, etc., presuming future assignments allow for it. 

Overall, this has been an interesting process & despite my natural tendency to pursue projects in less than orthodox manner (read: not very good at following directions), I think I am still considering the essential questions. My notes for the individual meditation experiences follow.

Notes on Meditations at the Night Altar Week 2:

Night Altar Day 1:

+ 1 Glass of cool water
+ 1 Fukwai Jintan joss stick

Remember.
Remember breathing. Remember the stars & the Red Planet.
Remember grounding easily.
Supplication, gratitude.  Smooth, easy.
I feel present, more present than ever before at the Night Altar.
Eyes closed. Listening. Breathing. 
Hear the river, the cattle.
Feel the cold breeze on my face.
It is cold outside, but I am not.
Smell the manure, the damp soil, the melting snow.
The incense.
Did the incense bring this awareness of scent?

Night Altar Day 2:

+ 1 Glass of cool water

+ 1 candle stub & candlestick

Remember: This candle is too bright. It chases the Darkness. 

It's light surrounds me. I feel like a beacon in the night.

Remember being preoccupied with the flashlight in the corrals on the far side of the pasture. 

What are they doing?

Never grounded.

Thank yous & goodnight.

Night Altar Day 3: "White Face's Lesson"

+ 1 Glass of cool water

+ 1 Japanese Nippon Kodo Sandalwood

Remember.

Remember the ease with which I grounded.

Remember rocking, breathing. Rocking -- without Baby.

Listen. Listen to their breath. Heavy. Slow. Rich.

They are somewhere nearby, with me here in the Darkness. Breathing as I breathe.

Remember no longer feeling cold. Remember the heat across my forehead.

Inspiration: to be more present in the moment.

Expiration: thankfulness for this Life.
Remember feeling present, alive, electric.
She turns her head.
She was resting there with her white face turned to the Darkness.
So very near, all this time. All this time, breathing beside me.
Awareness is so much more than ocular input -- yet how we humans rely upon it so -- at the expense of all other awareness. 
This is White Face's lesson.

Night Altar Day 4:

Unexpected guest.

Night Altar Day 5:

+ 1 Glass of cool water
+ 1/2 Japanese Nippon Kodo Amber & incense burner

Party.
Remember sonic booms & cow parade -- urinating.
Baby crying. Fiasco.



Night Altar Day 6: "A Reply from the Gods"

+ 1 Glass of cool water
+ 1 Incense burner, charocoal & Livani tears

Went out feeling ecstatic after passing on my "Secret Garden" to a friend (more on that later). This kept me amped up & it was difficult to ground & centre.

Remember.
Remember not hearing the river or the cows.
Breathe in.
Breathe out & the cows exhale with me.
Breathing. Breathing & rocking.
The energy is strong within me tonight. The night is very still, very quiet. Only the cows breathing...
The stars are clear & beautiful. No Moon.
There has been no Moon for days now. I miss Her.
I drift in & out of my meditation. The energy is so strong. The night is so silent.
Breathing. Rocking.
During scattered thought -- monkey brain -- it occurs to me that I have not spoken to the gods directly in a great deal of time. Always the mushrooms, the plants, the animals, the canyons.
Breathing. Rocking.

Monkey says: Why not now? Why not ask Them, "What say you? What are your words?"
I ask in silence. I ask aloud.
The river is loud now, but it is the suddenness of the Owl that stops my heart.
The geese -- silent thus far -- chime in & a single dog provides the chorus. All the while, Owl continues Her staccato call from the Darkness.
I feel so present, feeling the intensity of all these voices. With some trepidation, I half expect someone to step forth from the Darkness...

I have forgotten to breathe.
The dog is silent. The geese settle back in. Owl continues Her call, but it too is fading.
All is quiet again. The cows breathe with me.
I look to the stars, the canyon, the pasture & the frozen soil beneath my feet. 
I give thanks for this Life. I give thanks for Their words. 
I am listening.

Night Altar Day 7:

+ 1 Glass of cool water

+ 1/2 Japanese Nippon Kodo Amber & incense burner

The neighbors left their floodlight on. I can see the cows sleeping along the fence where the Darkness has been chased away. Is this where they rest every night? So close. Closer than I thought.

Remember trying to focus, to ground, to breathe. Remember the black cow standing, watching. 

Monkey brain. Thankfulness & goodnight.

DianneSylvan.com