The State of Affairs & Suchlike, Yours, Mine Ours...

The Mockingbird is staring at me through the window. S/he wants more mixed cocktail nuts or pecan halves to be placed in the offering dish that graces the rail of our deck. Unlike the Bluejays, the Mockingbirds never dare to simply walk into the house to announce their perceived starvation.

My neglected storytelling is a bit like the Mockingbirds, sometimes noisy, sometimes elusive, yet always arriving with a pang of guilt.

...

Now that I have restored the dish to proper fullness with a large dose of pecans, let me begin to begin again.

This journal. 

Over the years it has become a Thing of its own & has also become a Thing to not only myself -- but apparently, many others. 

Maybe the sense of obligation killed me. (Albeit temporarily.)

Maybe the pressure to perform killed me. (Albeit temporarily.)

Maybe the semi-death of my camera, my mate & 'other voice' killed me. (Albeit temporarily.)

Maybe my passion for Another -- the Dance -- killed me. (Albeit temporarily.)

Maybe the degree of discomfort I experience while sitting more than a few moments killed me. (Albeit temporarily.)

Maybe it was the urgent pressings of Others wanting their Shrines made manifest killed me. (Albeit temporarily.)

And maybe, the distraction of my sheer horror & disgust of Our State of Affairs (& Suchlike)... well, I do hope it doesn't kill us all.

...

Maybe, maybe, maybe... But we all die many times everyday & it doesn't stop us indefinitely.
(Just think about all those cells dying & replacing themselves daily, on your epidermis, in your mouth, your liver, your colon...)


And so I begin Again.



(And to those of you who have been waiting: I never stopped loving you.) 

(Belated) Poetry for the Esbat: Decay Moon or My-Heart-Hurts Moon, 2014

The decaying one-half of One.
A sympathetic wanderer on the same trail who also lamented the loss
of these familiar denizens indicated that they are Gyrfalcons (Falco rusticolus).

"I know that all beneath the Moon decays..."

A belated "Poetry for the Esbat," because we were busy constructing Mushroom Shrines & preparing for the arrival of a special guest & of course, we were foraging...

If you step into the forest now, you can smell the highbush cranberries (Viburnum edule). They are rotting. 

This is a sure sign that the foraging season is screeching to a close & yet I love that familiar, dank, heady odour. 

I had chosen the poem below for that reason -- the decay, the inevitability of endings, the reliability of impermanence.

What I did not anticipate was that this poem, chosen for the Esbat, when the Moon is at Her fullest, was that it would take on an even more poignant & relevant meaning to us.

*****

We began our Mushroom Moon Shrine assemblage as usual, by collecting a wide variety of beautiful fungi from the trees & forest floor. Cheerful & diminutive seemed to be the theme of the day.

But as we passed thru the territory of the mating pair of raptors, (ironically?) discussed in the previous post's comments, I noted that they were peculiarly quiet, or absent...

And my husband, my mate, was suddenly drawn to a Devil's Club (Oplopanax horridus) leaf he mistook for a mushroom. I cannot recall what he said, or if he gasped, or groaned, but there, beneath the leaves of the Devil's Clubs & ferns was the decaying body of one of our beautiful, avian forest neighbors.

The bird appears to have been shot for sport & left to rot under the still, watchful gaze of our Moon. 

Of it's mate, there was no sign. 

But how can you blame the creature? If I witnessed the loud & violent death of my beloved, I would never return to that haunted place either.

And so, this is the way of things. There is no real sense to it. However, there is an Order.

But my heart still hurts.

And I am reminded & know that all beneath the Moon decays...



"I know that all beneath the moon decays"
by William Drummond of Hawthornden


I know that all beneath the moon decays,
And what by mortals in this world is brought,
In Time’s great periods shall return to nought;
That fairest states have fatal nights and days;
I know how all the Muse’s heavenly lays,
With toil of spright which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds of few or none are sought,
And that nought lighter is than airy praise.
I know frail beauty like the purple flower,
To which one morn oft birth and death affords;
That love a jarring is of minds’ accords,
Where sense and will invassal reason’s power:
Know what I list, this all can not me move,
But that, O me! I both must write and love.

I hope your Esbat was indeed blessed, my friends.

Animist Blog Carnival: Birds. Will We Ever Listen?

This eye-candy peppered opinion piece is a part of the Animist Blog Carnival of August 2013. To read other animist perspectives on birds, please visit Brian Taylor's wonderfully thoughtful blog, Animist Jottings.

To read works from previous Animist Blog Carnival or join us, visit headquarters here: The Animist Blog Carnival at Eaarth Animist. 

Black-billed Magpie, (Pica hudsonia) in the Autumn leaves.

Last week, I reluctantly rose from an incredibly vivid dream during which I may or may not have realized I was dreaming. After completing Robert Moss's Conscious Dreaming: A Spiritual Path for Everyday Life, I segued directly into James Hillman's The Dream and the Underworld. At the sacrifice of several other activities (like writing), I have been working very intensely again with the dreamwork. This time, not as a vehicle for working magic, but as my personal communication line to the Oneiroi (Ὄνειροι); the gods, daemons or personifications of dreams -- pick whichever makes you most comfortable. The specifics of this dream constitute much too cavernous a rabbit hole to venture into here, but the events occurring immediately outside this dream were of direct relevance to the topic at hand: birds.

My neighbors across the cul-de-sac always have scores of magpies (Black-billed Magpie, Pica hudsonia) in & about their yard. To this I confess a deep envy, for I love those raucous, showy beasts. They are among my favorite corvids, even if they are comparatively small & lack the edgy quality of their larger, more popular ebon brethren. So often I have watched the magpies from the kitchen window & muttered wistfully to myself, or the skeleton cat, the children, anyone who might listen… "How come they never hang out over here? What are we missing?" This morning I was pulled from my dream repeatedly by a cacophony below the bedroom window. A single magpie, riotous as ever there was one, summoning me with relentless vocal vigor, back into the waking world. 

A magpie... What does this mean? I could check some book of correspondences or bird symbolism (Jungian, Native Alaskan, Celtic, Chinese… pick your flavor, they're endless), but I won't. I know what that bird was about.

That bird was pulling me out of a potentially sticky situation which I could not perceive from my vantage point in the dreamworld.

The bird was also really digging the insects hovering about our lawn...

Canadian Geese (Branta canadensis)
demonstrating a genius we can only lamely imitate.

Birds. We humans love birds & it is so obvious why: they have a genius that we can only lamely imitate. They can fly. We will never attain their brilliance in this faculty. They are true magic-makers & in tribute, our human spirits, cultures & imaginations have seen to it that our avian associates are the bearers an aggregation of folklore, correspondences & symbolism of epic proportions.

Sun Salutations of the Turkey Vulture (Cathartes aura).

But despite my delight in the folklore & the amusement I enjoy while leafing through symbolism tomes, I find all these proscribed notions about birds (or anyone else) very limiting. (I have discussed this issue before in Sciento-Magick: Re-thinking Correspondences I.) Fascinating, engrossing, enchanting & even sometimes relevant, but overall, still limiting. Why? Because, in the end, I tend to feel that all those "correspondences" for the other than human world (not just birds) function very much like stereotypes & stereotypes ultimately de-personalize the stereotyped. Getting wrapped up in all our human-centred lore, symbolism & correspondences is so very human-centered. It can -- & does -- cause us to stop listening to what our neighbors might actually be trying to tell us…

Winter Crow
(American Crow, Corvus brachyrhynchos).

Say I look out my window & I see five crows (Corvus brachyrhynchos). I could say to myself, "Five crows for silver…" (I wish!), but what those five crows could really be saying is, "Hey, thanks for leaving the lid off the garbage can! That halibut carcass is the bees knees!" Perhaps they are saying nothing at all. Or, perhaps they are implying something more subtle & personally relevant, as they often do. Unfortunately for us, the subtle messages require more effort to discern &… oh, we humans like to shy from too much effort or introspection. It is much easier & much more fun to crack open the tomes & leaf about to find what the "Native Americans" or the "Celts" or the "Gypsies" or the Brothers Grimm had to say about those crows…

Which brings me to a tale of bird-related "Native American" symbolism. Let me begin by very briefly stating that I do not practice "shamanism" specifically because I am deeply uncomfortable with the degree to which non-Native people have co-opted, misused, misinterpreted, misappropriated & marketed the "Native American" & pretty much all other indigenous religious systems worldwide. I might share certain spiritual perspectives, values, inclinations & behaviors, but I do not consider myself a student of any the "Native American" or other indigenous world religious systems. This tale is not about that. It might however, be about the folks who do… or not.

A couple of Winters ago, I was looking for specifics on the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918 because, as a scavenger, I have an uncontrollable urge to drag home body parts. Sometimes those parts are bird parts. At some point I realized that there was a high probability that much of what was accumulating about my homestead might be contraband. True to character, I never got to the full text of the treaty act because I ran down a rabbit hole of the most diversionary kind: a Yahoo discussion thread. 

White Crowned Sparrow (Zonotrichia leucophrys).

In the thread, some human person -- non-Native I presume from their avatar -- was asking about the "Native American symbolism" of the "eagle." My immediate reaction was, "Well, for starters , what sort of eagle? Which tribe's lore? Where? What time? What else was happening?" This person "saw an eagle" which I must presume was a Golden Eagle (Aquila chrysaetos) because it would be the most common, recognizable eagle in the lower 48, but there was little more symbolically or otherwise, to go on. However, this did not hinder a glut of culturally non-specific correspondences to be bandied about throughout the thread. The querent was quite wound up about knowing "what it means" to see an eagle & the conversation went on for several posts. Down the thread a ways, someone responded by identifying themselves as a Native person, (I believe one of the Pueblo -- Hopi, I suspect, but I forget) chimed in with the most interesting, pragmatic reply. This person said that whenever they see an eagle "on the rez," they just think, "It's an eagle." No big deal. Except when the eagle crosses the road in front of the car. Then they turn back. 

I loved that thread because it illustrated the murky conundrum that comes from extracting symbols & correspondences out of context -- physically, personally & culturally. The symbolism, the omens are pragmatic, if we apply them in the proper context. But, willy nilly, generalized or "universal" hodgepodges of symbolic "meaning" leave me itchy. This is why I prefer to stick to personally relevant symbolism -- I would rather strive for communication.

Midsummer Willow Ptarmigan (Lagopus lagopus).

Early Spring Willow Ptarmigan (Lagopus lagopus)
& quite possibly the same as above.

Raven (Corvus corax)
with personally"meaningful" 
mention HERE.

In a particularly excellent interview (Podcast: Graham Harvey on Animism) graciously made available by The Religious Studies Project, Graham Harvey describes a similar tale relevant to what I seek to cultivate & what he calls the "personal nature of the world." Beginning at minute 25:25 in the podcast, Harvey relates an incident where an eagle flies over & encircles a dancing & drumming ceremony. Eagles are not unusual in that region -- they are, in fact, quite common -- but the notable act of the bird chosing to fly across the river & circle the people during their ceremonial finale gave it meaning. What did it mean? Harvey asked a variety of participants & came to the conclusion that to different people, "it meant different things, but it was a communication." A communication… Exactly.

Immature Red-tailed Hawk (?)
(Buteo jamaicensis)

If we stay locked into the established cultural/magickal/spiritual presumptions we humans like to place on birds (or anyone else) we risk a sort of stereotyping. Clutching to our assumptions, we cease to listen to the individual & thereby (inadvertently) deny their personhood. We cease to communicate or be receptive to communication. In the interview, Harvey speaks of "multiculturalism in nature."  I believe that part of multiculturalism means allowing everyone their own voice. That means that sometimes -- probably most of the time -- that bird is not telling you anything at all about you, just like that woman across the aisle on the bus is also not telling you anything about you. Remember, as Harvey says, "It's not about you." But, it is also "not without you." So sometimes, someone does have something to communicate. When that moment arrives, let us each hope we will listen.

And the magpie? …hasn't returned, much to my chagrin.

Living Animism: They Grow Up So Very Fast...

A Western Kingbird (Tyrannus verticalis) & devoted parent.

Who are the persons in your neighborhood?


I woke some time around 2 a.m. While struggling to return to some semblance of sleep, I kept being disturbed by some sort of peculiarity with the laptop which keeps causing it to illuminate its screen despite the fact that I turned the screen brightness all they way down to off. Perhaps it is the nudge of a muse. Or a plaintive cry for attention from the abandoned. Or something.

So I shall take a short moment out of this night hour & return to the anecdotes I threatened but have yet to produce. But first, I must have a very-brief-rant. Very brief. Promise.

/run rant 

Late last night I sought out some small bit of minutiae which has no particular relevance here except that in the process of seeking this generally unimportant information, I stumbled across a piece of writing relevant to animism. Or was it "animism"? Regardless, the content, nay, the premise has been chapping my hide ever since.

The website author had a special tabbed section devoted to said "animism" wherein they described how they practice said "animism." In short, animism, or animistic practice, in that individual's worldview, consisted of sitting in their bedroom in the dark, drumming themselves into a trance state & waiting for visions of cliché animal spirits. With some groovy rhythms & healthy visualization, the usual sexy predator types that are so easy to anthropomorphize & airbrush on the sides of vans or silkscreen on t-shirts will come visiting that practitioner's psyche to verify & validate all that stuff they read about the human symbolism of said creatures. 

Velvet Ant. Self reliant.

What chaps my hide is this: No one EVER says, "Yeah man, I got into this super deep trance state & was visited by this velvet ant spirit who who taught me all about self reliance..."

And if animism is about relationship... it begs the question: when you want to be in relationship with your partner, children, friends, co-workers, team mates... do you go shut yourself in your room & drum them into your mind's eye?

I will call what the author described a highly modern/western-ized permutation of quasi-shamanic practices, but I won't call it animism. Unless they really went out & spent some quality time with those sexy predators & then went inside later & did the trance work to dial them in from home. Trance work is like long distance calling -- it's alright, but you need some face time too. Unfortunately, I don't really think that's how it happened. 

I could say more, but...

/end rant

Feeding younglings, June 19th.

The anecdote for this wee hour of the night/morning relates to the Western Kingbirds (Tyrannus verticalis) who raised their younglings in our carport this June. When we arrived, we quickly discovered their nest & found that we were something of a disruption to their already established routine. So, being the latecomers, we deferred to them, modifying our activities to keep clear of their household. That meant changing the door we used, walking around the house instead of through the carport, parking & re-parking the car several times a day to keep it out of the sun & sweltering heat, etc. 

But what a joy to watch those two devoted parents! What a delight to perch on the edge of the bathtub & peek through the bathroom window to see the babies grow & grow & grow! 

Unfortunately, our rhythm was interrupted by a sudden emergency & upon returning from yet another unexpected hospital stay, I was disappointed to discover that the babies had left the nest in the short time we were away...

But therein lies the simple, gentle lesson from the Kingbirds: They grow up fast. So very fast. Give them your best & cherish them. Every single moment you get.

Kingbird babe, June 23rd. They grow up so very fast...

Poetry for the Esbat: Time To Spring Moon 2013

Traveling by boat in the Crazy Northwestern Sunlight. 
Nighttime in Homer, AK.

My observations tell me this is a pivotal point in the seasons. A week ago today, we were experiencing a snowstorm which made weather "history"-- human recorded history anyway. Today, it looks as though the birch tree hanging over the greenhouse is pulling up its socks, readying to/for Spring. The grasses look like they are dressing themselves in chlorophyll green again. No leaves on the trees yet, but no snow either. Along the asphalt-warmed roadsides & building edges one can see weedy species & the ancient, self-possessed, horsetails (Equisetum spp.) of the Paleozoic already emergent. Finally, we see overnight temperatures that do not demand our toting the little plants in & out of the greenhouse every evening.

Common Loon (Gavia immer),
seeking fish off the Homer spit.

Once again, the Sun insists on riding the horizon 'round & 'round. With such an enormous nightlight, I know the birds are either back or simply back in gear because they sing nearly all night long. I leave the window open just a wee bit so that I might listen. On the Kenai, the bird migrations are in full swing. Great flocks, some in swaths, others in chains, all on their way somewhere, swinging low over the glistening water.  The loons, unflappable birds that they are, already dodge float planes & dive for fish as if they never left.  

This coming week also kicks off the official tourist rates in town, so don't travel to Alaska until after Labor Day if you are on a budget. To me, this implies Summer. So Spring, I presume, must be manifesting in the next day or so because there is simply no room to dally. If Spring does not spring asap, it will have to forfeit this year. Summer is nearly upon us.

Waxing Moon in a sort-of-Spring sky.

Lady Moon is now full swing into her Dance of Obfuscation with the Sun. Best time to see Her is in the afternoon or evening, when the Sun has wandered over into the Northwest corner of the heavens. There is no bathing in the Moonlight, or watching Her light reflecting on the water, but it is fun to play a game of hide & seek in the latter part of the day.

In an effort to find some apt poetry for the Esbat, I wandered down to the community library & took a peek. In a book from a notoriously questionable source whose writing chronically lacks citation, I found a curious list of Full Moon names for this month. The text refers to May's Moon as the "Hare Moon," but it also offers the following alternates: Merry Moon, Thrimilcmonath (Thrice-Milk Month), Sproutkale, Winnemanoth & Planting Moon (isn't it a bit late?). Some of those names I hadn't seen anywhere else, so I figured I should include them here, despite the questionable source material (see: Conway, "Moon Magick," published by Llewellyn). 

Last year I chose the "Flower Moon" moniker. It was most certainly appropriate for the high desert bioregion of our other home. I had thought perhaps I might call this Moon the "Horsetail Moon," but really, what we need is for Spring to spring, so I settled for "Time to Spring Moon." It is a bit of a double entendre for me because soon, very soon I will taking our children by ferry across the water, back to the desert. Migration cometh, at the squirrely backward time of June 1st. We ready ourselves to spring.

18. The Moon.*
From the Dion Fortune Tarot.
Image & deck can be found at
Deep Books, Ltd. Tarot Blog.

While perusing the shelves in the community library I also found a copy of Dion Fortune's The Sea Priestess. As I have mentioned in the past, Fortune's writing has been one of the keystones of my esoteric philosophy. It may seem that the poem I chose is a bit of a non sequitur with all this discussion of Spring. Probably. Maybe. I chose it because I keep thinking about all the change about to happen, the transition to a different place, climate, context, culture. I do not transition all that well. Or rather, transition itself is difficult for me, but the adjustment once the transition has passed is usually brief. So, I keep thinking about the Moon & how She is always there & always has been, no matter what the changing conditions. My faithful guide. So too, in a way, is Ms. Fortune.

Thus, this Esbat I offer up a piecing together of connected excerpts from The Sea Priestess. I do not share Ms. Fortune's views regarding the nature of deity (a monotheistic monism?) -- she uses aspecting, I don't -- but her expression of the rhythm of being & All that is... well, it is so spectacularly beautiful. I am including some of the prose with this set of evocations in order to provide framing & context for the poetry. 


Selected excerpts from The Sea Priestess, by Dion Fortune:



CHAPTER XXI

...She stood for a long time looking out over the moonlit sea till the shadow of the down drew in to her feet; then she turned and looked up at the moon with the moonlight full upon her. She was like a statue, so still and so perfectly formed. Then she raised her arms to the sky till they looked like the horns of the moon, and began to sing one of her strange songs that she had been singing to me on and of? For the last few days, and that had, I think, contributed not a little to my restless and disturbed state, but this time she was singing with the power of evocation--

"O Isis, veiled on earth, but shining clear 
In the high heaven now the full moon draws near, 
Hear the invoking words, hear and appear-- 
Shaddai el Chai, and Ea, Binah, Ge."**

Impelled by what power I do not know, I rose and walked towards her, and as I got close enough to see her face in the moonlight, I saw that it was not Morgan Le Fay at all, and that' the eyes were strange and wide and inhuman, not even the eyes of the sea-priestess, but of the sea-goddess herself. She I raised her arms like the horns of Hathor and she sang to the moon and the sea--

"I am she who ere the earth was formed 
Was Ea, Binah, Ge 
I am that soundless, boundless, bitter sea, 
Out of whose deeps life wells eternally..."


CHAPTER XXIV


...I felt that this peculiar tidal rhythm was in all things, like a great breathing. And I remembered that the Moon was called Our Lady of Rhythm and the Ruler of the Tides of Life. There rose to my mind one of Morgan's songs with which she had plagued me with an all too sweet torment:

"I am that soundless, boundless, bitter sea. 
All tides are mine, and answer unto me. 
Tides of the airs, tides of the inner earth; 
The secret, silent tides of death and birth. 
Tides of men's souls, and dreams, and destiny-- 
Isis Veiled, and Ea, Binah, Ge."

Isis Veiled, I knew, was Our Lady of Nature, just as Isis Unveiled is the Heavenly Isis. Ea was the soul of Space and parent of Time, older even than the Titans. Binah, the Dark Sterile Mother of All, was the Great Sea whence life arose, the female principle and pre-matter. And Ge herself was the magnetic earth that is like an aura to our globe and in which move the tides that the Easterns call the Tattvas. These things I knew, for Morgan had already told me, and I realised that I was now watching them...



CHAPTER XXV


...Then she sang, and I knew that this was Isis, unveiled and dynamic:

"I am the star that rises from the sea-- 
The twilight sea. 
I bring men dreams that rule their destiny. 
I bring the dream-tides to the souls of men; 
The tides that ebb and flow and ebb again-- 
These are my secret, these belong to me--

"I am the eternal Woman, I am she!

The tides of all men's souls belong to me. 
The tides that ebb and flow and ebb again; 
The silent, inward tides that govern men-- 
These are my secret, these belong to me.

"Out of my hands he takes his destiny. 
Touch of my hands confers polarity. 
These are the moon-tides, these belong to me-- 
Hera in heaven, on earth, Persephone; 
Levanah of the tides, and Hecate. 
Diana of the Moon, Star of the Sea-- 
Isis Unveiled and Ea, Pinah, Ge!"



Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends.


* As I understand it, Dion Fortune had no involvement in the development, design or production of this deck, but rather it was inspired by her works. Would she approve? I do not know. But, it seemed an appropriate compliment to this Moon's poetry piece.

**  Pronounced Eeah, Beenah, Ghee.

Wandering: Waiting on Ice.

Waiting on the Ice.

Twilight. March 13, 2013. 

I am waiting on Ice. Braced against the bitter winds by the grace of a White Spruce (Picea glauca), I am waiting for the Comet to present its glitter beneath the Moon. Some people find waiting easier using the steep, icy sheets of Earth as their personal noctilucent luge course. I do not.

✫✫✫✫✫

Until now, I entirely missed the gravity of the message, the omen presented to us when we returned the offering platter to the kitchen. The Waiting Moon left Her mark, as if to say, "Oh, yes. You will wait." Her sigil, a slow chemical reaction of elements, ingredients & sentiments, now resides above the stove: a constant reminder that we are waiting.

And I am beginning to think that all this waiting is not so much about the end result, the goal or destiny, but rather the process of waiting itself. What do we learn from this?

Sigil of the Waiting Moon, revisited.

There is something about this waiting that makes me feel a little bit of insanity, a Berzerker agitation, like a steer in the chute or a racehorse at the gate. I want to run -- charging into the Sunlight, shedding the layers upon layers of clothing. Snow bibs off. Down parka off. Pillbox hat off. Smartwool socks off. 

I want don my faithful, ten-year-old sandals & dive into loamy duff, filling my nostrils with its rich earthy aroma. I want to see Bluebells (Mertensia paniculata var. alaskana) erupting from their sepals -- a signal, a sign that now we may doggedly hunt for the elusive Black Morels (Morchella elata). When we find them, I want to rejoice with my tribe, the trees, the Spirits of the Land, anyone, everyone who cares to join us.

Instead, I imagine the shimmery High Desert heat rising off the rocks -- stacks upon stacks of hot rocks, lizard tenements. I imagine a tiny sliver of black sand beach in Dominica -- oh, to return there now. I imagine the Sun high above, warming deck chairs on an ocean liner filled with quiet, slow-moving passengers -- just like the ship that ushered me into what is now my present.

Instead, in the tension of the here & now, I borrow the High Priest's sanctuary & desperately, frantically spin, raising energy so I might release it. Dance practice & exercise: I find that they are no longer enough. Panting, sweaty, legs curled under, arms prostrate, forehead pressed to the cool, smooth bamboo floor, I cast it to the Earth -- please, please take it. For the love of Mabel, take it. I do this so I do not kill anyone in the waiting. From this act of reckless magick, I gain temporary relief. But it also makes me feel a bit... well, mad. As in Hatter.

Bohemian Waxwings 
(B. garrulus) waiting.

Yet, I only need to look out the windows to see that I am in good company. Those Bohemian Waxwings (Bombycilla garrulus) are also waiting. As they feverishly flit & flock by the hundreds, it seems to me that they are equally as restless. They shift en masse from tree to tree & back again. 'Round & 'round they go, sometimes all day, as if in search of something just around the corner. Perhaps they are looking for signposts to a new season. Perhaps they are waiting for some of the very same things as me. Like Spring.

But, I find I am also waiting peevishly for any single ounce of time to write. My heart tells me I must. My life says, "Wait."

I am waiting to master, or even minor, a dance I just met. I want it to feel natural, today. My body & mind say, "No. Practice... & wait."

I am waiting to learn & know all these Alaskan birds which, obscured by thick foliage, can never be seen in the green months. I want to recognize them now, while I can, but the daily obligations say, "Wait."

The same principle applies to Aurora Borealis stalking & the pile of books at the bedside, the emails & letters (which will likely never be written), the community lending library I spearheaded (Gah, what was I thinking?), the painting that begs to be completed throughout the house, the flying ointment, reorganizing the kitchen, the Bovini celebratory project I began months ago, the backing up of data, the "Winter Queen's Necklace" I began stringing, hanging all those mirrors (good grief! so many! narcissism?), the mobile Moon Shrine... 

I am also waiting for the-cat-who-was-left-behind to gain back some of the four pounds she has lost. Which brings me to the lesson of all this waiting. Or at least one lesson.

Sleeping Lady, ever waiting.
Some are infinitely patient. Others, not so much.

If we spend all our time waiting, wanting, yearning, braced for something which is not now, but down the road a little ways, or possibly a long ways, what do we overlook in the present? There is that adage, something akin to, "Don't squander your time living in the past..." But how about the future? Do we squander our present by living for future expectations? Waiting for vacation. Waiting until we think we have the money. Waiting for better weather, better circumstances, better odds. Waiting until the house is clean, or the laundry is done (which by nature, can never, ever be done). Waiting for a convenient time. Waiting for a new day. 

I recognize that I must love, relish, cherish what I have, right now. I cannot live in the Land of Expectations. Love the demanding kids. Now. Love the gentle partner. Now. Love the skeleton-cat. Now. Love this frozen Place. Now. Love this precious & beautiful Life. Now. There is a feast in the waiting. Wait. Pause. Be. 

It is ok to wait, but be-present.

Be in the waiting. There is a feast!

✫✫✫✫✫

In the waiting for the comet, I am joined by a very special friend, a meow-friend. Sun-tanned & radiant, she tells me about her wedding. On a beach. In the Sunshine. In Love. It is good to hear her story & to feel all the warmth she brought back with her. 

Later, we climb two flights of clanging, frozen, steel stairs to join our boys on the wide, wind-swept rooftop of the park building. We gaze over the ocean & wait for the comet alongside a professional photographer wielding a camera as large as a cannon. He tells us about being a landscape photographer in Alaska. He talks about all the waiting, waiting for expectations which frequently never materialize. Luscious waiting. The comet never presents itself, but the frosty, sled-crazed children are so happy. We are all so happy & what the Universe offered us in all that waiting was much, much more than what I was waiting for.

The feast of waiting.

Poetry for the Esbat: Cold, Snow, Chaste, Hunger Moon... When is the Quickening? (2013)

Tarot Priestess, by Jane Adams 2003.
Image from her website janeadamsart, where she shares her varied artistic
& esoteric explorations -- a magnificent collection of imagery, a wealth of information.
Also, the only website I have found where both animism & Ida Craddock are discussed (!).

Ah, this February Moon. So many names that imply a state of waiting...

Last year, I wrote: 

"February's Full Moon, is called the Snow Moon, Hunger Moon or Quickening Moon. According to the Farmer's Almanac, it was often called the Snow Moon because February is generally the month with the greatest amount of said precipitation. Also weather related is the name Hunger Moon, pointing to the difficulty of the harsh seasonal conditions during this time. The name Quickening Moon, I believe (& feel free to correct me if you know otherwise), is a more recent name which makes reference to this Moon's proximity to the celebration of Imbolc, Lá Fhéile Bhríde & Groundhog's Day. It points to the stirring of the Earth -- the earliest reawakening after a long winter's slumber."

I can add to this the "Chaste Moon," moniker which some argue stems from the "chastity" of early Spring, while others describe it as referring to the purity & introspection of Pisces. I am inclined toward the latter, that of a thoughtful, self-protective inwardness. Either way, chastity in this particular case seems to be used to emphasize what has not yet happened, but is anticipated. 

But when?

Hunger Moon. Aren't we hungry by now? After months of navel-gazing & waiting, waiting for the Sun, don't we hunger for transformation?

Alaska is making us wait, but even here, deep in the snow, I see small signs of change. Last night, I stepped out onto the deck to speak with the Moon. I was barefoot. In the balmy 31° F air, the snow felt warm between my toes.

Bohemian Waxwings (Bombycilla garrulus) waiting.
Alaska's February birds.

Our birdfriends are moving about more too. I am utterly dumbfounded that tiny birds like Black Capped Chickadees (Poecile atricapillus) actually overwinter here. It seems like sheer madness to me. I believe they accomplish this feat by hunkering down, keeping quite still & waiting... But now they break the silence & shake up the stillness. They appear en masse, mobbing what is left of our edible holiday ornaments (strands of cranberries & popcorn, hung on the trees outside). They cock their heads & peer in the windows as if to say, "More cookie crumbs, please... & can we get a side of Sunlight with that?" I have seen many familiar faces & a few I do not yet know. I feel a fellowship with them -- we are all hungry & waiting.

The Changeling is waiting too. Waiting for his Moma to be done with the computer. With that thought, let me get right to the poetry. It too, is about inwardness, waiting, transformation & also snow, shadow & barbed wire fences which I find myself missing quite a bit right now.



Hunger Moon
BY JANE COOPER

The last full moon of February
stalks the fields; barbed wire casts a shadow.
Rising slowly, a beam moved toward the west
stealthily changing position

until now, in the small hours, across the snow
it advances on my pillow
to wake me, not rudely like the sun
but with the cocked gun of silence.

I am alone in a vast room
where a vain woman once slept.
The moon, in pale buckskins, crouches
on guard beside her bed.

Slowly the light wanes, the snow will melt
and all the fences thrum in the spring breeze
but not until that sleeper, trapped
in my body, turns and turns.

Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends.