I Will Get Through This Winter

Birds hatching in nests.

Asparagus

That yellow/pink color of green haze that hovers over the trees just before the leaves pop out.

Cherry blossoms by the Jefferson Memorial in the moonlight.

Fresh watercress.

The scent of daffodils and tulips.

Purple and black jelly beans.

Cocktails on the screen porch, even if a sweater is needed.

Green grass.

Sudden showers warm enough to dance in.

Pink sunrises, earlier and earlier, every day.

Going outside in a light cotton dress.

Bare feet, even when it is a bit too early.

The return of the mourning doves.

The first day that the baby squirrels come down from their nest in the crape myrtle.

The way the dirt feels in your hands when you plant seeds.


Go on, you add yours.

Picture found here.

Thank You Yukio Ozaki.

We're a mere 18 days away from Ostara, a name that modern witches give to the Spring Equinox. My garden and trees are shrouded in snow. Last night, the wind wailed like a bereft lover and the stars held solemn wake in the ice-clear sky. Miss Thing and I huddled, I swathed in sweatshirts and socks, beneath cotton covers, duvets, tightly-woven tapestry, linen sheets. This morning, there was ice forming, again, on the beautiful Potomac River, just above the spot where it runs by the Lincoln Memorial.

And, yet, all my thoughts are for the Kore, for the maiden, for She-who-has-been-missed, for Spring. (Long before the xians sent their son god up from the underworld after a three-day stay, my pipple, well, you know. Eleusias.) I want to eat peas, and spring greens spiced with slices of radish, and violet petals. I want to drink warm cream from a gentle cow, and wild parsley tea, and melted ice. I want to dance barefoot on sun-warmed new grass and I want to bury my nose in a baby's scalp and smell that perfect smell.

In my lovely city by the river, one of the loveliest signs that Spring, has, indeed, returned from the underworld, is when the cherry blossoms, planted mainly along the city's Tidal Basin, bloom. The exact date when they'll bloom is, in this ancient city, a subject of debate, and augury, and record keeping, and instinct. A warm day in February, a chill wind in March, even a few cloudy days in April -- almost anything can throw off the best guesses of ancient and practiced blossom watchers, of large computers humming in the basements of sandstone government buildings, of learned scientists at the Smithsonian, of lovers planning picnics, of merchants making magical amulets.

One of the THE most magical nights of my life came nigh on 20 years ago, when the blossoms unexpectedly bloomed in mid-March, under a huge full Moon that shone just above the Jefferson Memorial, and I was in love with the Moon and Jefferson and the water and the trees and the blossoms and I learned, through pleasure sharp as a lover's whip, that this city, on a river, with monuments of marble and statues of alabaster and fountains of opal and quartz, was, indeed, built of magic and indeed needed sex to keep it alive.

The cherry blossoms are a koan for the Charge of the Goddess: [K]now that the seeking and yearning will avail you not. No picture of them, no video, no written description can give you the experience of being surrounded by millions and millions of cherry blossoms. I have experienced them in the sunrise, the warm mid day, the sunset, the moonrise, the sudden snow. I have flown home from across the globe and gotten cab drivers to stop for me at the Tidal Basin, dropped my bags, kicked off my pumps, and run to the water's edge to see the last pink blossoms floating softly on the gentle waves. I have loved them at that most magical moment when the sun is thinking of setting and the temperature drops the first degree and these "scentless" blooms give up their scent and you are in the arms of the Goddess, you are making love to the world, you are dancing naked in silks across the sky, you are, well, you are breathing in Gaia saying "Namaste," and it's all, it's all, it's all just, it's all just Spring in Washington, DC.


Photo here.

Ostara's Coming

Fire!

If Samhein is a good time of year to set goals and then let them germinate through Yule, Imbolc, for me, is the shot-in-the-arm time, the pep talk, the time to really use that extra fire that comes with the longer-lasting sunlight and the occasional Spring-like day. (And Eostara's about play, something not reserved for maidens. I'll have more to say about this soon.) People who work off of the secular calendar often set new goals on January 1st and then dive right in. By now, though, the gyms are starting to seem a bit less crowded: people are beginning to flag.

I've been thinking a lot about fire, lately. About how one ignites it and how one keeps it lit. There's not much fire in my chart, and I've always kind of used that as an excuse to have an indifferent reltionship with fire. When I had to, I just relied on my earthy stubbornness to get me through. But I need it: I need more fire in my life. I've finally satisfied some of my earthy and watery needs for security and material comfort and structure and, now, at almost 53, I find myself needing more fire.

And, so, after living in this house for six years, I finally got the chimney cleaned so that I could start having fires. I had one; it was nice. I tried to have another one and somehow screwed up the draft; smoke all over the living room. I cleaned that up, learned how to start a good draft, and had a third fire. It broke the glass fireplace screen. I ordered a new one. It got delayed in production. You can't make this stuff up.

Today, my new screen arrived and I managed to get it inside and assembled all by myself. Even though it's rather warm this evening, I'm going to have a fire. If you hear tomorrow about an old woman and a cat burned in a freak fireplace accident, you'll know it was me. I am going to make a special offering to the house elves before I strike a match.

Image found here.

Update: Of course, when I went out to get the wood, the pile of what I thought was firewood on the backporch was nothing but FatLogs, used to start fires, but no actual firewood. As I said, you can't make this stuff up. I'll get some firewood and try again this weekend when it's supposed to turn cold again. Meanwhile, I love the Universe's sense of humor.

Balance. Only Two Days Out of Three Hundred Sixty Five

My circle won't be celebrating until the Full Moon tomorrow night -- insane career bitches, we're huge adherents of the "three days rule" -- but I couldn't let today pass without a post for Eostara. When I was a good Catholic girl, Easter week, and the passion leading up to the crucifixion, was the most important part of my spiritual life.

Today, excommunicate that I am, dark and light hang in the balance. Tomorrow morning, when I wake early to finish preparing my home for Eostara observances and run out early to buy a birthday cake for my brilliant friend, E, the light will, for half the year, begin to win the contest. My yard is already showing that it's Spring, filled with hellebore, crocus, daffodils, bluebells, lilacs, woad, mint, sweet woodruff, grass.

Early this evening I walked barefoot all over my yard, out to the far southwest corner to pick forsythia and over to the southeast corner to pick jonquils. Sun in Pisces, I experience the world through my feet. Through my bare feet. Through my naked, bare feet, walking upon the wet, muddy, spring ground. The muddy ground made of decomposed oak and maple leaves and acorns on top of clay.

The muddy ground upon which I would rather walk, barefoot, than upon any carpet anywhere, in the world. I am a manifestation of the Goddess. May it be so for you. Balance. It's such a lovely trick!

I Can Haz Flowers!

It turned out to be a bright, sunny day. The crocus are in full bloom in the front bed and the hellebore are opening wider and wider. The lawn guys came and gave my yard its spring cleaning. I ate an early dinner out on the screen porch. Life is good.

First Flowers Of Spring

Hellebore bud, white crocus, purple crocus. I'm always threatening to pull out all the hellebores, but then they show up so early, when I'm really longing for a touch of Spring, and I forgive them for taking up so much space the rest of the year. I've got lots more crocus coming, but these two were the first. Since the crocus is the flower of friendship, I'm glad that they showed up together.

In Earnest

I'm just at one of those "good" periods right now. I'm moving forwards on goals, spending time with friends, getting things done at work. That's what the period between Imbolc and Eostara is all about for me.

On Wednesdays, I get together with some witches for ecstatic dance and a healthy potluck dinner. Tonight, my dear friend R. was talking about cleaning every inch of her house in preparation for Spring. I was thinking this morning about how in Spring, it's so tempting to abandon goals and just indulge in the sun and warmth and flowers and how in Summer it's so tempting to give in to the heat and just sit under the ceiling fan with a glass of iced tea. But in February, there's none of that. There are goals and there are ways to work on those goals. I'm blessed with friends who push and prod and help each other to achieve goals.

I had dinner last night w/ a friend who works harder than almost anyone I know at consciously creating his own life. It's such an inspiration for me.

I'm reminded of a poem w/ overtly xian connotations: Life is real/Life is earnest/And the grave is not its goal/Dust thou art to dust returneth/Was not written of the soul.

Now, between Imbolc and real warmth, my life is real and earnest and the grave is not its goal.

What do you need to do between now and Eostara?

What I Love About This Religion:

"Does anyone have a squirt gun to be used for calling West?" is a completely understandable question.

The "Hello Kitty" mylar baloons all over the yard were considered completely appropriate decorations for one of the 8 high holy days of the year.

A Giglliana is a valid form of worhip.

Dancing the hokey pokey, G/Son in arms, is part of the worship service.

G/Son grabbing the big yellow cloth tulip wand and toddling around the circle (Deosil! The boy's a genius) seemed as good a way to cast the circle as any.

***********************

Well, what can I say? It was Eostara. We were welcoming the maiden.

When The Spring Thaw Comes

Something they
won't tell you —

That book of sins
you hide
beneath your pillow
matters
not at all.

When the spring thaw comes
we all go mad
and shred it,
tossing love notes
left and right
scribbled on the scraps.

~Ivan M. Granger

It's All About Balance

Vernal Equinox, Bitches!

A good time to think about the role of balance in your life. You've got an equal amount of daylight or nighttime dark in which to do your thinking.

Happy Ostara!

More pictures here.

Chants

Ivo has a wonderful chant for Ostara. Go listen and let it just wash over you.


Art found here.

Bare Feet

Maybe it's because my Sun is in Pisces, the sign that rules feet and ankles, but one of my life's greatest pleasures, and I mean this seriously, has always been going barefoot.

To me, there is something just incredibly sensual and luxurious about feeling the floor, or the dirt, or the grass, or the sand, or the ceramic tiles, or the wood of my deck, or the bricks of my walkway under my feet. It's like making love to the world, over and over and over -- moment, by moment, by moment. It's as if the nerves on the soles of my feet are connected directly to my hips, to my red chakara, to my deepest core. A large part of my practice is being "grounded" and bare feet are the best way that I know to practice that, well, practice as a moment-by-moment meditation.

Walking barefoot through the surf is a huge religious metaphor in my life, a symbol to me of being so blessed by the Earth that you're almost completely unaware of how blessed you really are, the waters of life rushing and flushing and gushing around your ankles, over and over, step by step, never stopping.

Sadly, as I've gotten older, I've also become very sensitive to having cold feet, although I'm still good for a few runs out in the snow or out onto the freezing ceramic tiles of my screen porch every winter, just to remind myself, through the pain, that my feet are alive and can touch the ground. But, most of the winter, I wear warm socks and slippers, cuddling my feet, but denying them what they want most -- contact. Having broken my ankle badly a few years ago (not an uncommon injury for a Pisces), I wear boots with a heavy tread and Yaks Tracks every time there's even a hint of snow or ice. For me, it's like walking around with blinders on or ear plugs that muffle everything.

Which is all a long way of saying that I went out back this afternoon and spent an hour picking up twigs and sticks that have blown down over the winter (my yard was spic and span last Fall, but living in an oak grove has its good points and its disadvantages) barefoot. Every twig and stone and dried up holly leaf "hurt" in some sense, but the sensation of contact with the wet, muddy Earth, the ability to stand with my back pressed tight to the maple tree and feel its roots thrumming and sucking through my feet was almost more pleasure than I could bear (or bare; pun intended). And, then, I came inside and walked barefoot on my old wood floors, through which I can feel so much of what's gone on in this cottage during the 51 years before I came to live here and in the 3+ years since I've been here, as well.

Miss Thing looks at me quizzically; she gets to go barefoot all the time. For me, though, it's an April through October pleasure. And I adore it.

What is it that you love most about the warming of the Earth?