Mirror, Mirror... 11.21.17 (for the files)

"If art reflects life, it does so with special mirrors."

   ~ Bertolt Brecht

Mirror, Mirror.

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

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

Poetry for the Esbat: "Unto the Hunter's Moon..." (2014)

Demons with cards under a full Moon,
from Patrick Valenza's "Whispers from an Inkwell." 

We can call it many things; The Blood Moon, Sanguine Moon or in my own previous labelings, the Blood & Bone Moon. In more southerly climes, one may still call this the Harvest Moon, but it's already a little late for us in this bioregion. There is snow on the mountains & we wake in the dark with frost coating most everything outside.

There are those who call it the Hunter's Moon & that makes sense to me because I have noticed that the Moose begin to look both increasingly sexy & decidedly more tasty at this time of year. The bucks begin to resemble long legged sausages & the ladies have such great looking haunches that I struggle with this weird quandary of wondering which I want more -- to have a rump & thighs like that for myself, or to gnaw on said rump & thighs. And thus, the Hunter's Moon.

A plump moose buck lounges on Autumn afternoon.

This is also the time of gearing up for the end of October festivities. I have grappled with Samhain plenty, repeatedly even. And last year's Samhain (which fortunately I had no computer to with which to write about it) was such a colossal misadventure, that I am calling it quits on Samhain. Just give me Hallowe'en, please. 

Cards from Patrick Valenza's
"Whispers from an Inkwell."

This Moon's Poetry for the Esbat reflects this sentiment, an embracing of of the fairy tale, the folklore & festivity that is Halloween. This is not the modern, over commercialized, Hallowe'en box-store caricature of the holiday, but the truly spirited cultural celebration of the unknown, the dark places with the safety & security of a shared venture into the theatre of ambiguity. It is about traditions, about becoming what we are not & using that ruse to enter those places we "shouldn't" go... 

It's also an aesthetic adventure, if you do it well. 

And I am not throwing the baby out with the bathwater, I am simply quite done with other people's versions of this time when the leaves turn & frost nips & strange spirits venture forth to brush elbows with the rest of us. I am done. No more psychodrama, no more tacky materialism, no more reconstructing of the "ancient past," please. I just want to dive into the celebration, swim deep & revel in each moment.

Cards from Patrick Valenza's
"Whispers from an Inkwell."

With this admittedly old fashioned sentiment in mind, I have found a piece submitted to Harper's Weekly in 1910. I suspect the commercialization of Hallowe'en was minimal at that time (at least the vulgar gore was). The poem speaks to the festive aesthetic, the celebration & the mystery. It reminds me of Palmer Cox's Brownie books which I like to read to the children whenever possible. One of the poem's strengths is that it does not neglect the importance of our Lady Moon's influence in all things Hallowe'en & even mentions the monkier "Hunter's Moon" -- perfect for this Esbat. 

I have also included some images of Patrick Valenza's not-exactly-Tarot deck, "Whispers from an Inkwell" which also capture that olde-tyme feeling, albeit a bit less festive than agonized (a mood generally characteristic of Valenza's work).


Hallowe'en, by J . K. Bangs
Published in Harper's Weekly, Nov. 5, 1910


Bring forth the raisins and the nuts--
To-night All Hallows' Spectre struts
Along the moonlit way.
No time is this for tear or sob,
Or other woes our joys to rob,
But time for Pippin and for Bob,
And Jack-o'-lantern gay.

Come forth, ye lass and trousered kid,
From prisoned mischief raise the lid,
And lift it good and high.
Leave grave old Wisdom in the lurch,
Set Folly on a lofty perch,
Nor fear the awesome rod of birch
When dawn illumes the sky.

'Tis night for revel, set apart
To reillume the darkened heart,
And rout the hosts of Dole.
'Tis night when Goblin, Elf, and Fay,
Come dancing in their best array
To prank and royster on the way,
And ease the troubled soul.

The ghosts of all things, past parade,
Emerging from the mist and shade
That hid them from our gaze,
And full of song and ringing mirth,
In one glad moment of rebirth,
Again they walk the ways of earth,
As in the ancient days.

The beason light shines on the hill,
The will-o'-wisps the forests fill
With flashes filched from noon;
And witches on thier broomsticks spry
Speed here and yonder in the sky,
And lift their strident voices high
Unto the Hunter's moon.

The air resounds with tuneful notes
From myriads of straining throats,
All hailing Folly Queen;
So join the swelling choral throng,
Forget your sorrow and your wrong,
In one glad hour of joyous song
To honor Hallowe'en.




Blessings & delight to you this Esbat, my friends.

Art. Symbol. Life. The primal self.

An impromptu moment among friends.
Ad lib art creates a powerful, primal symbol.
Image credit PH/CK.

The photo above is of a friend in my godfather's yard which constitutes an ever growing sea of sun-bleached, scavenged "crap" -- or treasures, depending on how you define these things. 

The photo is an impromptu moment in the lives of some people -- together they are enjoying a Place & special event very dear to my heart & whole being. 

The photo also captures a moment of extempore art.

And this photo presents a powerful, primal symbol.

Over the few days since this image came into my view, I find myself returning to it again & again. It is the sum of it's parts that make it compelling. Were this a photo of the friend, or of the elk alone, it would not have the same power. His placement in the cluttered "wasteland" is also relevant, but the man-body with elk-head is the key. 

It is the key to an immediate, visceral reaction. I doubt that many humans would gaze upon this without their guts telling them something. However, the reaction & consequent interpretation is up to the viewer's symbolic associations. Folks like to argue that we humans have a set of shared, universal symbols, but I am not sure that we do anymore. I think technology, world religions, cultural dispersion & other things have changed our perception of said symbols.

What do your entrails say to you about this? 

Mine harbour longing. And they wish to see & know something that lies just beyond, around the corner, outside the borders of the camera's viewfinder or, perhaps it is that which one might find through the gateway of the man-elk.

Poetry for the Esbat: Buck Moon 2014 (A Love Letter.)

A fortuitous gift from my sister: "Buck Moon" elk plate.

Yesterday my dear sister gifted me with a stack of plates, each one painted in silver & antique gold with a different ungulate; elk, blackbuck, moose & bighorn sheep. Did she know that this Moon around the corner is best known as the "Buck Moon," or was this gesture just another vibration in the Web?

Since I find myself again in the High Desert for this Esbat, I wanted to share a piece from my growing collection of lichens-in-the-Moonlight poetry. But the dish...

And besides, I miss my husband -- this round, more than ever before. It seems odd that it becomes more difficult as I get older, rather than the inverse.

Ah, Love, so mutable.

With that, I take this excuse(?) to assemble a Love Letter out of a poem about Love & Stags which has little or nothing to do with the Moon at all, except that it does because everything does in the fullness of time. I had selected Tarot cards filled with ungulate imagery, however, I am opting out in favour of the pure potency that comes with simplicity. Just the poetry, please. Those who appreciate Love, the Horned Ones or just the natural thrill of the wilderness, this poem is also for you.

The Stags, by Kathleen Jamie

This is the multitude, the beasts

you wanted to show me, drawing me

upstream, all morning up through wind-

scoured heather to the hillcrest.

Below us, in the next glen, is the grave

calm brotherhood, descended

out of winter, out of hunger, kneeling

like the signatories of a covenant;

their weighty, antique-polished antlers

rising above the vegetation

like masts in a harbor, or city spires.

We lie close together, and though the wind

whips away our man-and-woman smell, every

stag-face seems to look toward us, toward,

but not to us: we’re held, and hold them,

in civil regard. I suspect you’d

hoped to impress me, to lift to my sight

our shared country, lead me deeper

into what you know, but loath

to cause fear you’re already moving

quietly away, sure I’ll go with you,

as I would now, almost anywhere.

To listen to this poem read by the author, please visit: The Poetry Foundation's website

I Love you. I would go with you, almost anywhere.

I Love you too my little sister. And I Love the rest of you, you know who you are.

Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends.

Mycophilia: When It Leads to Myopia.

This week whilst wandering, I nearly trampled this not-so-wee one:

A youngling Moose (Alces alces), nearly trampled by myopic forager.

Fortunately for us, this youngling Horned One was relatively unperturbed & even more fortunately, unsupervised. I stepped back a few paces to take this photo & decided that perhaps I should have my eyes checked for mycophilia-induced myopia.

Rebalancing, Part 2: Greeting the Land

The first day or so after we arrived was filled with the details of settling in to this new domicile, searching for & finding (or not finding) all those material bits we take for granted until we do not have them easily at hand. Like can openers. Why do they hide?

Greeting the Pacific Ocean, once again.

By the second or third day, I felt an irrepressible urge to formally greet the Land, its spirits, creatures, woodlands, bogs & in particular, the Ocean. It was time to take the wander through the rich, moist boreal forest that rubs shoulders with the Alaskan coastline. It was time to say hello again to the smell of brine & mud, to gaze beyond the reaches of the land, beyond the sea toward the horizon. As a native desert creature, I need this. I have always felt slightly (sometimes greatly) unsettled by landscapes which obscure the horizon. The ocean often becomes a saving grace -- its vast, smooth surface mollifying me with an unhindered view of where I stand on this Earth.

Alaska. This place, this Land has a presence all its own. This is difficult to articulate, but if you are open to it, it is almost palpable. You can breathe it into your lungs, thick & heady. You can feel it pressing on your skin. It smells strongly of... ha, Alaska. There are no words. It can only be experienced in person, with your being. In concert with this dense, hulking presence of place, there is a bursting population of lesser, no, smaller entities here. Droves of them. This place hums with life & energy & spirit. It is abuzz, teeming & ebullient with hoardes of diverse creatures; beings of all forms & functions. 

Hello again,
Northern Horned Ones.

This Land & its inhabitants are substantial, raw, unsubdued & so very, very damp. They exist in stark contrast to my arid region cohorts who seem almost etherial by comparison; my one ton grass chewing bovine friends are but a whisper in the heat when I consider the weighty richness of a rotting log here in this damp & fertile forest. So, it is here I find myself, rebalancing, recalibrating. This place operates on a different scale.

Greetings this time consisted of simple, appreciative nods, winks & "hello"s. Nothing elaborate or heavy, everything just casual, familiar, down-to-Earth. As I seldom have a moment to myself anymore -- always existing in the company of my wee folk -- I made no production of it & perhaps no production is necessary. After all, with few exceptions, we humans seem to be the only beings who need elaborate ritual to acknowledge our spiritual neighbors. 

Dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) tea.

While I am on the subject of wee folk, I will note that Little Lad appears to have his own ways of rebalancing, reconnecting, recalibrating. The very first day here he began foraging. He has been quite steadily & systematically gathering dandelions (Taraxacum officinale) for me to dry for tea. While I am not sure this task makes all that much sense with all the other tasks & concerns at hand, I cannot deny him. So I found a second life for the threadbare cotton poplin sheets I did not have the heart to toss. I tore them into squares & used them like cheesecloth to hang dry bundles of dandelion petals. Little Lad also harvested an Artist's Conk (Ganoderma applanatum) (after asking its permission) & several pieces of wood stained with Blue Stain Fungus (Chlorociboria aeruginascens). Watching him, I am reminded how we all connect with the Land in our own fashion. That is, if we choose to engage, to have & nurture that relationship.

In these fresh days, I relish this new-feeling, yet well-known energy that surrounds me. It's corny, but cannot help but think of that old Journey song -- I don't recall the title, or most of the lyrics, but there is a line that says something akin to, "I get the joy of rediscovering you..." Rediscovering. Rekindling a passion. Yes. That is what greeting this Land means to me. What joy it is.

A Strange Simpatico.

Tonight the boys had a campout in the yard to the East, not far from my stoop at the Night Altar. There, they set up a tent & made a fire in my mother's beloved cast iron firepot. 

In the firepot: An accidental Bovine Appreciation Fire.

I was trying to take photographs of Little Lad roasting a marshmallow when something occurred to me. This pot, shaped in the image of a cow seemed to have a magick all its own. My mind wandered to my bovine companions who have been moved to open grazeland for the season. I thought about them, such curious beasts & how they would have been drawn to our activity. I remembered how they will stand together, shoulder-to-shoulder in the night, facing inwards & gazing at a pile of embers left behind by our day's brush-burning. (As if scrying?) We have always called this habit their "worship circle."

My mind then wandered to what they give to us -- to humans & our domestic companions. They are not simply my nocturnal breathing partners. They complacently rest in the core of our American life -- at the core of my life. At least as it presently exists.

The Night encroaches on the Bovine Appreciation Fire.

This crappy new medical circumstance of mine has forced me to examine my food consumption in uncomfortable & inconvenient ways. But, it also has had a philosophical edge, the greatest lesson of which (thus far) is that I (perhaps a wee bit less now, but still) live on the labour of these priceless creatures. I am made of milk (mostly) & while I am still making milk, my milk is mostly made with nutrients from their milk. I do not much care for beef. Except perhaps in Bolognese sauce, but even then, I would take elk over beef any day. But Bolognese is also made with milk. This is exactly what I continue to see in my own lifestyle, over & over. Morning = pasture butter & half & half in my coffee = milk. Noontime = Greek yoghurt = milk. Hot afternoons = frozen dairy treats = milk. Dinner = the inevitable cheese = milk. Those cows are supporting, no, furnishing my lifestyle.

Unfortunately, I am not grappling with lactose intolerance. It is more serious than that. Then again, perhaps lactose intolerance would be a very serious thing for someone like me.

Anyway, I started to think about how we could honour all those cattle out there in our world, making all that milk & standing about in feed lots waiting to end up as someone's all-beef patty. How can we still honour the Tribe of the Bovini who feed & clothe us humans all over the Earth? We no longer live closely with them. They are no longer part of our household, our family. Yes, I know we can all stop wearing leather & go vegan, but this is not what I mean. I want to celebrate them. 

How do I/we do this? How do we honour their spirits? How do we give thanks for all that these gentle creatures give to us -- every single day?

I am thinking about a Bovine Appreciation Ceremony. I do not know what it will look like, but I suspect it will involve this firepot, the chill winter air, my Night Altar breathing companions & a fire that burns long into the night...

The Bovini. Let us honour them into the night.

A Gift from the Night Altar Delegates

A Gift from the Night Altar's Delegates.

I have been unable to visit the Night Altar since Hubby left for our northern climes. This is disappointing for several reasons, not the least of which being that I could really benefit from some peaceful, contemplative time in the presence (or non-presence) of beings other than my children. 

I must have appeared in dire need of a consolation prize.

A handful of days ago, the Little Lad wandered into the house after wandering the pasture. As he handed me the antler pictured above, he said matter-of-factly, 

"This is a gift for you. It's from the cows." 

"It's from the cows?" 

"Yep." 

So pleasant in my hand, I knew exactly what its purpose should be. Gazing out the window at my erstwhile companions I whispered, "I miss you gals too."

Wandering: More Gifts from the Sky

A Gift from the Sky: Owl Pellet Art
In the form of a Montane Vole (Microtus montanus) & a Northern Pocket Gopher (Thomomys talpoides).

I have been noticing a trend since the inception of the new year. Last year seemed to be represented by an abundance of encounters with, & gifts from the Horned Ones. But since our entry into January, it seems there has been a shift to the Sky. What this means for us & the coming year, I can only speculate & wait eagerly to discover.

We wandered as far as the barn yesterday & there we found the feasting grounds of Owl. We filled a Mason jar with pellets to be painstakingly teased apart over the coming weeks. Little Lad is honing his skills. We delight in watching him marvel.

A Solstice Blessing, Horned One Style

We rose before the Sun, quietly scurrying about, packing the car, readying the house for our absence. The Sun, ascendant, was just breaching the sturdy ridge of Breakfast Canyon, when we extinguished our Yule Vigil Candle, tied our Wishing Ribbons to the elm tree & locked up the homestead. In the car, my ambivalence towards our destination was balanced by thankful rumination on the return of our life-force. A needful blessing.

…Just a few miles down the road, bathed in the firey illumination of dawn, we slowed & stopped the car for Him. His breathtaking majesty dizzied our minds & lifted our hearts. A haunting & momentous blessing. With wonderstruck gratitude, we traveled on.

Cervus canadensis. Blessed by the Horned One.