Something for the Esbat. March, 2017 (Maktub)

This.
This Night.
Any Night.

Some songs, they come & go. Not this.
It persists.
Perhaps... it is not a song.

Blessings to you this Esbat, my Friends. I Love you.

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: I Am Not Ready... But I Can Smell It Coming Anyway.

... and she cocked her head quizzically & said to me, "I didn't take you for a Sun worshipper..."

*****

Actually, I didn't have to wander far, only to the poppy patch to harvest pods & seeds for the shrine & next season. That is where I smelled it. 

I have been waiting for that scent. It has been absent in the face of all the other signs;

like the distinctive slant of the Sun's light,

and the waft of sweet decay from the Highbush Cranberries,

and oh, no, no, no, the Termination Dust that sneaked it's way onto the mountains without my notice,

and the early arrival of Nightfall,

and the Frost which blanketed the yard this morning... late into the morning.

But that smell, the smell of Autumn, I must have missed it through the congestion but yesterday it traveled into my nostrils, touched my sensory organs & made contact with my brain & it was so welcome & unwanted, so beloved & distressing. 

*****

I smiled at her & chuckled at the glaring irony. Then I said, "I'm not. Not exactly. My body... my body needs the Sun as my Spirit needs the Night."

Baladi Moon: Another Homecoming

Moonrise over Nevada. Photo taken on the road home.

Baladi (Arabic: بلدى‎ baladī; relative-adjective "of town", "local", "rural", comparable to English "folk", with a lower-class connotation) -- Wikipedia

Perhaps I neglected to mention yet another migration. Nowadays, our shifting of location is regulated less by the seasons & more by the heartstrings. Thusly, we adapt.

It seems to me that there was no mistake when my dance instructor chose to direct my studies toward Baladi just as we return home -- to my home, the land of my birth & the house I loved at first sight. I am, despite a liberal education & a small degree of worldliness, still a desert rat at the core. 

And don't I know it.

As part of my dance studies, I was given an assignment to document the sounds of my environment. I struggled with this in our Alaskan city's muffled winter... traffic, jets, the humming of the bathroom fan, the sounds of my children sleeping... I felt I couldn't discern much & most of which I did seemed unsatisfying.

And perhaps the truth is that I often don't have the quietude within myself to listen while I am in an urban environment, even one as idiosyncratically wild & magickal as ours. 

But my first day here in this obscure, rural outpost in the high desert I wrote:

"Sounds from my home (the home of my birth, the one from which my blood is made): cattle maaawing at sunrise, wild turkeys cackle like a gang of drunken comedians, the collared doves with their sad-sounding cries, the occasional diesel engine of a truck loaded with hay, or dogs, or children... and SILENCE."

Silence. Silence is the key. Absence of input makes the sensory experience more refined. When the constant drone of the hive is replaced by silence, sounds become staccato -- they are rendered pure. This makes all the difference.


The rest of the family notices these perceptual, perhaps qualitative differences too. Depending on who they are, they mention how the food tastes better, the toys are more engaging or the Sun is brighter & warmer. In this rustic environment, everything moves at a much slower, more relaxed pace & despite the overwhelming amount of work to be done, the sense of pressure is minimal, while the work is somehow more satisfying. 

And the Moon, oh, that Moon! She is always at Her finest. There is nothing, nothing at all like the Moon slung low over the desert, cradled by a Night sky that bears stars that not only can be seen, but are too plentiful to count. 

Baladi Moon. How much more sense it all makes from this side of the journey. All the pieces, they just keep fitting together. Perfectly even. 

Rite of Oneiric Insight, Part 1: General Outline

"Greek Dream" by Jacqueline Kurfürst of DeviantArt.

It is nothing but incredible that I (somehow, by some providence) made this happen before the deadline I set (in a vow of sorts) arrived.

And because I am in the habit of bogging down all my ceremonial documentation with colossal amounts of detail, I am going to begin with an outline of pertinent bits, lest I lose track of things in a rabbit hole along the way... 

The short version of the story is this: there is nothing in the ancient calendars to follow if one wishes to observe a special period of observation for the Oneiroi. So I decided that National Sleep Awareness Week, as established by the National Sleep Foundation was just perfect. Last year it was March 3-10 & I just flailed. Or wasn't ready. Or something. So I vowed to get it figured out by this year.

And here we are. National Sleep Awareness Week: March 2-8, 2015. 

Last night I hosted the first of many (I hope) ceremonies I entitled: "Rite of Oneiric Insight" which I confess isn't the most imaginative name, but it gets to the point. 

This rite has two purposes: 1) to offer respect & gratitude to the gods/spirits of the House of Sleep & their mother Nyx & 2) to request their favor in the form of illuminating &/or prophetic dreams. 

I borrowed ideas from a slew of sources including Duncan Barford, Jody Whiteley & Robert Moss to name a few. And, if I get to the details, I will give all the various sources their due recognition. But for now, just the essentials (my actual rough outline/recordkeeping for this rite):


Rite of Oneiric Insight

General Outline:

Guest arrival & briefing.
Cleansing. (Wash hands and face)
Light lamp or candle, recite Orphic Hymn to Nyx. (Translated by Apostolos N. Athanassakis, 1977)
Light incense.

Make personal supplications &/or thanksgivings.
Libation & hypnagogic tea/elixir.
Visualization with Orphic Hymn to the Oneiroi. (Adapted from Kimberly Nichols, 2013)
Cartomancy.
Closing & direction for Personal Sleep Ceremony.
Extinguish lamp or candle.

Direction for at home procedure:

Personal Sleep Ceremony: 
Light candle.
Recite Orphic Hymn to Sleep. (Translated by Apostolos N. Athanassakis, 1977) 
Extinguish candle.
Morning journaling. (Communication, if desired)

Preparations:

(4) Face towels & washcloths w/soaps, moisturizer
Candle, incense & offerings
(4) Small (approx. 4 oz.) Drinking Horns 
Hypnagogic “Elixir” (herbal formula prepared in advance)
Visualization script
Deck of cards for divination — 2 faces: Gate of Horn, Gate of Ivory
(4) Dream Journals
Pamphlets containing Orphic hymns & ceremony outline
(4) Extra sheets with Orphic Hymn #3 to Nyx
(4) Muslin bags to contain: Clary Sage steeped cotton squares, mugwort herb (optional) 
(4) Beeswax & poppy seed offering candles

Music:
Foretold in the Language of Dreams, Natacha Atlas (during introductions, preparation, pre-visualization)
8 Hours Relaxation Music Sleep Study Meditation and Good Dreams, Jody Whiteley (during visualization/guided journey)

Set/Setting:
I used the living room of the Agora, our community center (a community-funded single bedroom apartment). The setting was intentionally cozy, my partner called it "opium den-ish." There was no "shrine" or "altar" proper, per se -- only a ribbon candle & an offering bowl. (I consciously decided not to bring my statue of Nyx because I didn't feel that imposing my own image of the goddess was appropriate to this very individual experience. I later received the feedback from one attendee that she would have liked to have had the icon present.)

Attendance:
The number of attendees was strictly limited. Everyone who attended was "prescreened" as it were, by a letter stating the expectations & intent very clearly. This was my way of getting around the concern that people might attend out of spectator-desire versus a genuine interest in dreamwork &/or developing a relationship with the House of Sleep. 


Images of the pamphlets can be found below. I will make the printable PDF file available via Google Drive in the near future. I will also post images of the cards used for divination, the visualization script as well as share my reflections... time willing. 

"Rite of Oneiric Insight" pamphlet, outside panels

"Rite of Oneiric Insight" pamphlet, inside panels

Now, to dance.

Pray to the Night Gods: New Ceremonies & Devotional Galleries

Plate with Cuneiform Script: Pray to the Night Gods
Clay; Early 2nd millennium BC, Ancient East.
Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg

Sometimes it feels a bit lonely. 

Academically at least, I know I am not the only human who prays to the Great Night Gods. There are always others on this crazy planet -- the small pool of people who have been doing it across the millennia. I figure that all of us who honour any of the many & varied Night Gods ultimately find that deep, inexpressible yet compelling reason for engaging Them. After all, Their adoration continues on, whether we have had a tradition passed down to us from our families & culture, or whether we came to Them on our own, feeling our way about as we create & discover new, personal ways to honour Them. 

The Autumn Equinox has passed & the Termination Dust has capped the mountains. Now is the time for Darkness to settle & linger over this land. Time to move inward. Time to honour the Night Gods during their most conspicuous attendance. 

I have begun composing a special divinatory dreamwork ceremony, a Rite for Morpheus & the Oneiric Brood. It will probably take some modeling & inspiration from this ceremony, but much of it will be my own. I think. It seems to make sense to me that this ceremony occur monthly or so, throughout the dark window between the Equinoxes. Perhaps it should extend beyond. I will discern that when the time approaches. It is all open to adjustment & adaptation -- this is how we get it right. This is how we cultivate tradition. 

In honour of the Night Gods & the darkening season, I have finally added the third piece of the devotional galleries here in the journal. These galleries are a continually evolving, inspirational project for anyone who appreciates art, literature or any of my particular Night Gods. They are a perpetual work-in-progress & a personal joy to create.

• NYX, Νύξ, Nox: Primordial Mother
• Children of Nyx: DREAMS, The Ονειροι, Oneiroi
• Children of Nyx: SLEEP, Υπνος , Hypnos

Poetry for the Esbat: Night Life Moon or Beetle Moon

Night Life: Prionus Root Borer (Prionus spp., likely P. californicus)

Night life. Probably a Cottonwood Stag Beetle (Lucanus mazama)

Another Esbat careens through time, leaving me mentally & logistically unprepared. 

For our people, this is generally the Mushroom Moon, time for frenzied harvesting & Full Moon Mushroom Shrine construction. And it still is, but I feel a compulsion to take a moment out to talk about recent lessons from the Night Dwellers.

In these modern times, we occasionally hear the phrase, "No one knows their neighbours anymore..."

But did we ever? 

I am not an early hominid, so I cannot say. Maybe way back when, we at least knew more about who is palatable & who to avoid & who will lead you to something you might want to forage... 

Because of the cooler temperatures, we worked very hard into the evening in the High Desert. Sometime in the last month, whilst surrounded by the teeming life of dusk, twilight & nightfall, I realized that I knew of some of our neighbors, but never really took the time to know them. Especially the Night Dwellers.

Female Field Cricket (Gryllus spp.)

And I confess that I still cannot claim to know them, but at least in my efforts I came to understand them a wee bit better.

When we humans think of the denizens of the Night, we tend to think of crickets, fireflies, owls & bats. But rarely to do I hear mention of beetles. Yet hoardes & hoardes of beetles emerge from the underworld every night to stalk the earth in search of... food? adventure? love?

I don't know what they are doing, but every night I watched them -- they abandon their holes to wander under the starry cloak of the Night mother Nyx, to bask in the varying shades of Lady Moon.

Prionus Root Borer (Prionus spp., likely P. californicus) burrows.

Sometimes they engaged in very strange gyrations. Sometimes they seemed to meander directionless while other times, they marched forth with great purpose.

And sometimes they died.

And this is when I find their desiccated frames, shining in the morning light & I can take a moment to try to understand what it might be like to stalk the shadowy world in a very different body...

If I am lucky, I encounter them as they go about their enigmatic business &  I can capture their image before it is too dark & photos become blurred,

  But they move so quickly.

Such busy business to be a beetle. What are they doing?

This is the question we could ask of all our Night neighbors because we really, really do not know them.

And this brings me to the poetry for this beetle-pondering, Night Life honouring Esbat. I love this piece. It is a personal encounter with the nocturnal neighbourhood, a world which continues about its business, "... proceeding whether we observe or not..." 


Night Life  by Vivian Smith


Disturbed at 2 a.m. I hear a claw
scratching the window, tapping at the pane,
and then I realise, a broken branch,
and yet I can’t turn back to sleep again.

Slowly, not to wake you, I get up,
thinking of food, perhaps a quiet read.
A cockroach runs across the kitchen floor,
its lacquered shell as quick and dry as seed.

Outside the chalice lily lifts its cup
in adoration to the mirrored moon,
full of purpose as it trembles there,
collecting drops of moisture on its spoon.

Noises of the night, it’s all alive,
birds shifting in the steady trees,
slugs and snails eating fallen flowers,
a moth freighted with fragilities.

Nocturnal life, the other side of things,
proceeding whether we observe or not,
like rows and rows of brown coastal ants
transporting food from here to another spot.



To listen to this piece read by the author, visit "Night Life" at The Poetry Foundation.


Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends.

Super Buck Moon: Just Me & My Boys.

Preparing for the Buck Super Moon.
Drying goose eggs. Just the usual weirdness.

We spent much of the afternoon preparing for this Super Buck Moon to rise. Drying eggs, polishing elm branches (Ulmus pumila), shaving manzanita tips (Arctostaphylos patula), trimming black locust thorns (Robinia pseudoacacia)...

It's all part of the weird-work we do.

When Her Time was Right, She rose up, over the rocky crest, into the clouds...

Buck Moon Offerings.

Offerings this time seemed to demand volumes of liquid-fire -- a bowl of vodka with a splash of Chambord. (What is it about Spirits & spirits?) Italian hazelnut chocolates & four sticks of that strange Chinese incense. Not the usual protocols... make it all strong. Very strong. (Like Her namesake?)

Buck Moon Reading.

The children & I paused on the steps under the Moony cloud cover to draw cards by candlelight. No supplemental light would have been necessary had that sky cooperated with Ms. Moon. But clouds are fickle creatures, particularly in the High Desert.

One card each, right out of the satin & velvet bag, no spreads -- just keep it simple. Auspicious messages all around. I read them each a short interpretation in the heady mantle of incense which hovered about us -- where went the Wind?

Finally, to the tent, to spend our second Night under the great gaze of the Moon & the starry cloak of beauteous Nyx. 

In the thick of the night, when silence falls over everyone, even the crickets, sometimes the Coyotes (Canis latrans) "howl." If you have ever heard this, you know that "howl" is an inadequate word because their voices do not resemble dogs or wolves in the slightest. They shriek & cry like ghosts. Every time I hear their haunting songs I have a moment of confusion -- what IS that? This night I wake to the deafening silence, only a single errant cricket can be heard. What is wrong with him? Then, from the North, an otherworldly shriek. A rejoinder comes from the South, then another from the East. They are playing at call & response across this corner of the Valley, here at the mouth of the canyon. I feel both blessed & haunted.

We wake early, ensconced in our tent-turned-roaster, baking in the Morning Sun, unzip the tent to greet Breakfast Canyon, the Bovini & a new Day.  

Moon watching from our tent.

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.

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.

Flower Moon: Just Me & My Boys.

Flower Moon rises from the clouds.

Prepared with Gluten-free Mexican Chocolate Brownie (made with a fresh goose egg, i.e., a "Super-egg") & Kahlúa, I awaited Her arrival with much excitement. 

However, Her timing complicated small persons' bedtime routines. In the end, my Little Lad & The Changeling joined me on the East steps to watch Her break free from the fleecy wisps in the night sky. 

Flower Moon sky.

Flower Moon breaking free from a fleecy bed.

What magnificence.


The Changeling fell asleep in my arms, so the Little Lad & I carried him to bed. When we were certain he was snug & secure, we returned together to the porch to light a candle for the Healer who lost her mother & all those who find themselves living in the NICU. Little Lad watched for meteors -- with little luck in such a bright & dappled sky -- while I snapped photos between "ooohs" & "ahhhs." When the Lad began to droop before the flame, I took him to bed & made certain he was snug & secure.

One final return to the place that is the Night Altar. I paused awhile, simply to watch Her seraphic dance with the clouds. All the weariness of the day could not sully that inimitable moment.

The Flower Moon's seraphic dance with the clouds of the night sky.

For the Files: Notes on Nomad Meditations Week 4

More (late) personal notes for the Dianne Sylvan's Spiritual Nomads E-Course... for the files.

"Laksmi and Blue Poppies" by Paul Heussenstamm. Available @ Mandalas.com

Week 4 of the Spiritual Nomads E-Course flew by & I reflect back & see myself looking a bit like I did during my undergraduate career. I was notorious for ending up with incompletes. Oh, yes Queen Incomplete. I was incomplete enough to have my graduation date protracted by two years, a situation which required that I gain employment with the University just to maintain some kind of tether to the school while I dragged my feet. 

Perfection is part of my problem, but there is also a pickiness I see more clearly as I age. I have had some pickiness with this course which is exhibited by my lack of answers to four weeks of "Questions for Further Contemplation" & perfectionism is holding up my "Guru Board" (although I confess it was initially delayed by pickiness). Overall, however, I feel really positive about my commitment to the meditation exercises & the gifts I have received from it.

Blue Poppy (Meconopsis sp.)
Courtesy WikiCommons

I really, really liked the modification to the meditations this week & it made me evermore grateful that I took the chakra meditations workshop through my Alaskan community this past Autumn. It had the unforeseen benefit of being an excellent foundation for this part of the course. In this module, Dianne Sylvan asks us to do some chakra work & suggests we imagine the chakras "changing shape, solidifying into closed flower buds. The type of flower is entirely up to you..." She later makes mention of the classic Eastern lotus blossom, but I chose poppies because they appeal to my sense of humor as well as my sense of aesthetic. Lotus flowers, they are not, but one must go with what works. (I was pleased to learn that blue poppies are an "Alaska Girl" favourite. I suppose should stop & smell the flowers when I am down there with the fungi...)

Also in this week's module was a discussion on building ritual. Suggestions for adding to the meditations ranged the gamut & I was resistant to making changes I felt would just "complicate" things. However, I found myself feeling a strong desire to use a bell. At first, I didn't know how, or when, but it quickly became clear that ringing the bell from the porch, before I step out into the Darkness was to be the bell's mode d'employ. It is my way of signaling my entry into a special time, a special place. It is as much a signal to me as it is to those I may encounter outside the door. I find it a nice, simple addition & it just feels right.

My personal meditation notes follow.

Notes on Meditations at the Night Altar Week 4:

Night Altar Day 1:

+ 1 Glass of cool water

+ 1 Incense burner, charcoal, black/dark copal resin*

Remember.

Remember the breeze & the snow dust. Remember the rhythm of water dripping somewhere -- perfectly in time with my breathing, my rocking.
Remember the ting of the wind chimes signaling the chill caress of  the wind on my cheeks.
Remember how smoothly the visualization exercise flowed, offering a sense of tranquility, but not profundity. It did, however, chase away the monkey. 
Remember a powerful feeling of gratitude. Gratitude for this exercise, for this sense of peace.
There is a glow along the Eastern horizon.
Goodnight.

Night Altar Day 2:

+ 1 Glass of cool water

+ 1 Incense burner, charcoal, small-grained, multi-coloured resin (from the box of unlabeled resins)
+ 1 Copper bell

Remember.

Remember the Moon,sending greetings from the West side of Her sky-palace. Remember considering joining Her there, but choosing otherwise, blowing Her a kiss & returning to the Night Altar.


Remember breathing, rocking. Chakras, green & blue. Poppies unfolding to receive Love & Grace.
From this place, I send much needed Love to one I do not know, far, far away. I send it over the ocean with the Wind. Chimes, near & far, sway & sing in the breeze as it gathers strength.


I feel the stirrings of an over-taken-ness. My body begins to subtly pitch forward & back. It is a rare but familiar feeling. I am eager to welcome it -- yet in my anticipation, I slip into conscious thought & the feeling fades.


In pleasant peace, I conclude my evening rite, pausing before entering the house to bid the Moon goodnight.

Night Altar Day 3:

The wind is nightmarish. I step outside & realize that if the wind were less icy, I would take great pleasure in being pushed about by the powerful gusts. Instead, it's freezing fingers flow through my down jacket & pyjamas like water through a sieve, forcing me to take cover. I consider the enclosed porch, but it is just not the same as being truly outside. 
Reluctantly, I capitulate to the elements. Sometimes we have to accept our status as creatures of comfort.

Night Altar Day 4:

+ 1 Glass of cool water

+ 1 Incense burner, charcoal, Livani resin

+ 1 Brass bell

Neglected to journal afterward. How slacktastic of me.

Night Altar Day 5:

+ 1 Glass of cool water

+ 1 Japanese Nippon Kodo Iris* & incense burner
+ 1 Brass bell

Remember.
Joy & the Moon above like a heavenly ceiling light.
The rushing voice of the snowfall-engorged river.
Breathing in. Breathing out.
Shooting Star.
Geese gossip on the Eastern ponds.
Snowy Moon-glow on the Canyon walls.
Poppies open, more bliss.
Yes.
Even the neighbor's overbuilt truck engine sounds good.
Joy.
Goodnight.

Night Altar Day 6:

+ 1 Glass of cool water

+ 1 Japanese Nippon Kodo Iris & incense burner
+ 1 Bell from the bedroom door*

I did not write notes, for not long after I begin baby wakes, crying. I return to the Night Altar with the little one in my arms. Breathing, rocking, under the gentle gaze of the Moon. He sleeps again, his face, wrapped in black velour, is a warm reflection of Hers, wrapped in the fabric of the heavens.
Who is this bird singing in the night?

Night Altar Day 7:

+ 1 Glass of cool water

+ 1/2 Japanese Nippon Kodo Amber & incense burner
+ 1 Bell from the bedroom door*

Remember.

The River. Breath. The Moon above, Her luminosity causing my pyjamas & fuzzy slippers to glow preternaturally. Her light feels warm.
The Red Planet. Large, twinkling. Largest it will be to our eyes until 2014.
Poppies open.
Monkey brain prevails.
I chose to conclude the meditation & begin to rise. The faintly, from the North, I hear the voice of Owl.
I am listening.
Owl in the South. Perhaps the bird has silently moved to another tree? 
Silence.
I begin to rise. Again, Owl calls. One in the North, one in the South. Call & response.
We go through this routine -- silence, then me, rising to leave & Owls delaying me, then silence again. Over & over.  
Finally, a very long silence.

I rise, raise my hands to the Sky & the voice from the North calls out, clear & quite loud now: Whooh, Hooo-Hooo!
I smile. No, beam. Yes. I am leaving now, but I will be listening.
I turn & grasp the door. Whooh, Hooo-Hooo!
Goodnight.

DianneSylvan.com