Poetry for the Esbat: Hyperborean Moon (The Worms are Still Sleeping Beneath the Verglas)

Mandala of Place: I am here. Generally speaking.
Mercator: Septentrionalium Terrarum descriptio. A map of the North Pole.
Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons.

Greetings from Hyperborea, where it has now been snowing steadily for 24 hours! Our worms are still sleeping soundly under a thick, snow topped crust of verglas. No Spring has sprung for us. The consolation? We get extended navel-gazing time & (hopefully) some bonus inspiration:

"Never the Muse is absent
from their ways: lyres clash and flutes cry
and everywhere maiden choruses whirling.
Neither disease nor bitter old age is mixed
in their sacred blood; far from labor and battle they live."
-- Pindar, Tenth Pythian Ode; translated by Richmond Lattimore. (source: Wikipedia)

The Greeks almost had it right. Yes, this is indeed a land of inspiration. It is also a land where the Sun shines nearly 24 hours a day, but only part of the time. The other part, well...

Light & Dark, Light & Dark. It's a balance. It is also what you make of it.

Last year, in Utah, March bioregional Full Moon naming was a breeze -- those worms, they did all the work. This year, these Alaskan worms, oh! They are allowed liberal use of the snooze button. So, I spent some time culling the Lunar names across the ether. Nothing worked particularly well. Even the more local Haida name for the March Moon, "Noisy Goose Moon" doesn't seem to fit the bill. Those geese, they are clever. They are not venturing this way yet. 

So, here we are again. Making up names. I considered several climate-related, snow, ice, sleet, frost, cold type names, but they lack optimism. They also lack panache. I felt that associating ourselves with a place of creativity & inspiration, governed (under a theocratic monarchy) by the offspring of a snow-nymph & the North Wind seemed like a reasonable compromise to this freezing up of moniker-making. Besides, it fits. This is the North & there is still much navel-gazing & inside-ness to be had. Let us make the most of it. 

A brief digression: For some reason, I have had my mind returning to Thoth/Tahuti/Djhuti lately. In retrospect, I find it peculiar (or not really, because I was once one of those ambitious, monkey-brained, neo-pagan neophytes who only did cursory research) that I never realized that Thoth was associated with the Moon when I was keeping His shrine in the forest. 

Forest Shrine to Thoth, early 1990's.

"Thoth was still the ever-mysterious radiance of intuition, lit silver by the Moon. While Thoth is best known to Egypt and to history and present consciousness as a god of intellectual arts, his identification with the Moon continues, as though to suggest that the highest wisdom combines the clarity and penetration of intellect balanced by the insight and compassion of intuition." -- Thoth, Neter of the Moon, Comforter of Souls

Knowing this now makes an incredible amount of sense, as though a whole curve of dots in my cosmological dot-to-dot are firmly & finally connected. This mention of Thoth has little to do with this month's poetry for the Esbat (or does it?). I simply had a compulsion to transfer the thoughts into written form, here as I ruminate on all things Moon-ly. 

I am finding that the dots are connecting all over the place. Dots here, dots there. What a whole lot of dots there are, what a whole lot of entanglement we have! In last month's Poetry for the Esbat, I shared an image of the Tarot High Priestess by artist Jane Adams. I have been finding Ms. Adams's writing & imagery so incredibly illuminating, influential & challenging that I am revisiting her work again & again... & again this Esbat. 

The source post for this poetry wraps up a slew of dots, all into this lovely little package of connections. It transmutes the bits of this & that into gem pouch of personal meaning. It could mean nothing to any & every other human creature on this planet, but goodness(!), it fits together so neatly for me. The poem has been taken from her piece, "Sacred India Tarot Archive – Creation of Chandra, the Moon – card 18" where I found not only the Moon & Tarot, but also, embodiment, Darkness & Light, dreaming, evolution, guides, change... as if my thoughts, my spiritual foci, my efforts (& post labels) were snatched up & synthesized into this synopsis of the Moon card. 

"In the western Tarot, the Moon card rules embodiment, cycles of cell renewal and repair through sleep;  and cycles also of our past lives.  It has a wave pattern, because the path of evolution proceeds in waves.   But the Moon is also associated to the personal ego.   Archangel Michael guards this domain and “the path of honesty” to the transpersonal Self." -- Jane Adams, Sacred India Tarot Archive – Creation of Chandra, the Moon – card 18

"Arcanum Eighteen – an early interior journey looking up the Sefiroth of the Tree of Life. In the Moon’s crescent are the enigmatic faces of our guides.  The path takes us through the gate of the body (two towers, the ends of a fence) into the landscape of our dreams at night.  Beyond yet from within it, rises the sun, our Self. The pool here, is as the same as the one which the woman in the Star, card 17, gazes into.  We see with her the evolution of Life in all its forms." Image & text by Jane Adams

I am not going to attempt to summarize what I do not even fully understand. So, I suggest that you read the post for yourself. For me, it simply encapsulates this place I linger, this Hyperborean place of internal exploration, the effort of embodiment, the quest for knowledge & more importantly, understanding. Today I will dance. Tomorrow I will sing. There will be prose & poetry & relationship in between. Oh, yes... & baking.

The Moon: Embodiment
From Jane Adams, Sacred India Tarot Archive – Creation of Chandra, the Moon – card 18

Light & Dark, Light & Dark. It's a balance. It is also what you make of it.

Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends.

How Shrines Begin.

Together, on the silver chaise, very late at night. 
You recline. I sit, perched on the rounded curve of its overstuffed edge.
Staring out the window at a tree strangely poised against the pinkish winter sky, I say,
"You know that secretary I 'inherited' from my ex-boyfriend's, acquaintance's grandmother?"
"Um..." 
"The one in the basement of the house in Utah... with the ball & claw feet..."
(I swear that tree knows what I am talking about.)
After a moment,
"Oh. Yes..."
Still fixed on the tree,
"I want something like that, but a little wider than a grandfather clock, with solid doors in place of the lattice & inside, places where surfaces unfold, like the desk, but different & places that cradle offering dishes like the one the Perrins sent me & I want to use the great big glass vanilla vials to hold flowers & I want to collect more baroque picture frames like the one with the painting of the Victorian lady & I would like to have drawers or a cabinet below but I don't know quite know how to keep The Changeling out..."
"Ok."
"In those frames, I want an image of each of the gods that have been with me in significant ways throughout my life... It's time."
You nod in acknowledgement. 
"...starting with Thoth."
You understand, even though you were not there.
"...& there should be Fauna & Faunus & a place for Freyja's seeds..."
You agree, with a wry smile I know is for Freyja.
(Is the tree out there musing over Freyja too?)
Then, I feel myself struggle with the words, almost choking,
"And Herne..."
You snort softly, knowingly. You know He is the One I keep close, with much discomfort. I know, He is the One who waits at the end of the road.
"...And Morpheus."
You do not know how important He is, but you will. Soon. I promise.
I stop. You smile, waiting but not expecting.
There is a long pause.
"Ah... & Bacchus, of course." 
"Of course."
And this is how shrines begin.

Well, this time, anyway.

For the Files: And I Remember You...

Fire Pit "Of Yore."

I've been thinking back today, probably because it is a quiet, non-Bealtaine / Beltane / May Day. Although, we have found an astounding abundance of coupling ladybugs. So, maybe it really is Bealtaine after all. 

Today I was remembering my life in Massachusetts, probably because I have always missed the community & friends there. It is an awkward idea to have a festival alone & Bealtaine is particularly awkward. Solo Maypole? I think not. 

Anyway, these thoughts reminded me of the old photos I found while sifting for images for the "Guru Board" assignment. There was a small batch of prints from a home I once knew in Massachusetts. I don't recall taking them. A few years ago, we came across the undeveloped roll of film in the basement. When the prints arrived, I joyfully became reacquainted with that unique place.

Stones of the Fire Pit.

The house was tucked away in the forest & backed up against a wooded hillside. Behind the house we had a path that led up through the trees & into a clearing where we had a really lovely fire pit, ample seating & a small shrine to Thoth. It was a special place, a sacred space. Much magick happened there. 

Last week I had another piece published over at No Unsacred Place. In the story ("If These Walls Could Speak...") I described my experiences with this house I once knew:

"Years ago, I lived in a tiny cottage in a New England forest. Once a vacation cabin, it had since been converted into a student rental. I adored the tiny hut, but it returned my adoration with a noncommittal, unsentimental attitude. My impression is that it was ungrudgingly returning to the Earth (as evidenced by much rotting, sinking and mildewing). It never had any solid investment in providing shelter for an endless stream of transient humans. Why should it when there was a beckoning forest and so little reciprocity from its ephemeral residents?"

The house & it's environs are now part of who I am. Part of my heart remains tethered there. That house; a place of growing up, a place of many gains & so many losses. My beloved cat is buried there at the base of the penta-furcate tree which served as my shrine to Thoth. I have only been able to make one visit to that house & my cat's grave since I left over a decade ago. 

Curiously, after all the time spent there, I do not have a photograph (of which I am aware) of the house from the outside. However, I do have that small set of photographs which capture, as least faintly, the space we created on the hillside above:

 There was a path up which wound up the hill & under the arching trees.

For special occasions, we strung lights along the path & over the arches.

Tiny, bright lights beckoning us to follow, piquing curious spirits.

The path led to this clearing.

A space where we celebrated with friends.

A place where I could be alone,

almost.

Kindling ever-ready...

...its fires warmed us, inspired us, mesmerized us.

Those fires...

...how I remember them.

How I remember you.