Thursday's Child: Dismal Days in Autumn

It's a deliciously dim, gray, rainy day here where I live. It's on days like this that I want to curl up in front of a fireplace with a cup of something hot and delectable and stare out into my back yard forest.

Rainy, foggy, and snowy days all tend to give me a safe, blanketed, cocooning kind of feeling. I need those on more than one occasion, perhaps because of my introversion. It's as if the earth is sharing a special secret with me. It's a lot like being in a large family, and finally getting time with mom all to yourself.

How about you? Are you a fan of "dreary" days or do you need sunshine all the time?

Thursday's Child: The Watcher

Of The Wildwood

As Samhain approaches, I'm feeling much more like cocooning and communing with the spirits of the earth and the Otherworld.

I absolutely love the poetry of Ly De Angeles. I highly recommend her book, "The Feast of Flesh and Spirit", where you can find the following poem. It reflects completely where I am at today.

"I am forgotten until you remember me, 
I am the living root; the forever Tree---
I await beneath the senses for the soul who truly listens
with an ear to hear my mystery...
and in the song of such a one I am remembered;
and remembering will set the sacred free
to walk through dreams that can rebuild the ancient trackways,

to awaken memories of fires on the hills,
to call the faidh and the ceoltóirí  to attend me
As I plant the living legends in the places of the deep,
(where the forgotten ones still sleep)
of the forest of profusion of the ever-living Tree.

I am the Watcher of the Gate--I am not found
in any book already written, already printed, already bound
but in the spaces yet to be heard;
in the mystery of the yet-to-be-written word.
Ancient Now. Alive divine.
Prepare a place for me; a face for me.
Deny me not; I am the legend of the Vine.
And I am yours, beloved---you who hear me
And in an act that holds to nothing, we entwine." ~ Ly De Angeles (excerpt: The Watcher)

Festive Friday: A MidSummer Story

This was originally published in Imramma Magazine.

Midsummer’s Night

By Kallan Kennedy

She sits in silence as the longest day finally recedes.

A watcher, she is careful not to intrude; this night does not belong to her. The lightning bugs are the first to break the ebony cloak, as they illuminate the forest.

The anticipatory tension increases with each passing moment. Will they come? Will they show themselves? It seems as if she is not the only one asking.

The death beetles and crickets begin their song- a cacophonic competition that rises and falls in synchronization, inviting them to the dance. She holds her breath and tries to stay in the moment.

Don’t think. No anticipation. No expectation allowed. Be here. Be present. Be grateful. Feel the air filled with water; it is heavier than the night. Smell the bracing scent of forest pine and sassafras. Listen to the nocturnal concerto. Hone in on the fireflies as they pepper the scene. Wait- are those eyes? Yes! Several sets, piercing blue and moving this way! They have come!

As she draws in breath, it is stolen by their majesty. These are not the tiny winged creatures of silly folklore, but they are much more magnificent than she had ever imagined. Towering, lithe, and agile, their shine is mesmerizing.

They light a fire, and set up camp. The drummers join in the woodland symphony, as the dancers warm up. The king and queen take their places on cedar thrones, while the court prepares to feast. Their laughter is contagious and she forgets herself for a moment. The king’s head turns her way as her hand quickly covers her mouth. His eyes make contact with hers, and he winks before turning his attention back to the celebration at hand.

The fair folk begin their joyous festivity of fecundity and Mystery that will last until sunrise. She smiles as she takes it all in, knowing she is right where she belongs.

Monday Meditation: Seeing Through the Proper Lens

I woke up Saturday morning and took a picture of the first sunrise of spring. Cameras can never do justice to our experience, no matter how technologically advanced they are. What you don't see here is the steam rising up from the ground, creating a foggy atmosphere that was simply delightful. Life is a lot like that, my friends. These online encounters are wonderful, but never let them replace a walk in the woods, digging in the dirt, and listening to the music of the birds and frogs as they welcome the new season.

When Spring Goes By

Duncan Campbell Scott

The winds that on the uplands softly lie,

Grow keener where the ice is lingering still

Where the first robin on the sheltered hill

Pipes blithely to the tune, "When Spring goes by!"

Hear him again, "Spring! Spring!" He seems to cry,

Haunting the fall of the flute-throated rill,

That keeps a gentle, constant, silver thrill,

While he is restless in his ecstasy.

Ah! the soft budding of the virginal woods,

Of the frail fruit trees by the vanishing lakes:

There's the new moon where the clear sunset floods,

A trace of dew upon the rose leaf sky;

And hark! what rapture the glad robin wakes-

"When Spring goes by; Spring! Spring! When

Spring goes by.

The Appointment

The Appointment

The time has come for her to visit in what has become our annual ritual. As she catches me by the arm, and as a polite gesture, I feign surprise. I am not at all startled; subtlety has never been her strong suit. She is bubbly, chatty and full of energy, and now she wants to show me her art. I have to admit, it’s difficult to remain dispassionate in the presence of such infectious effervescence. She is enthusiastic about everything.

We walk along the corridor, she is sure to stop me to show off her first works; she calls them her “green phase”. She knows this is my favorite color, and she has certainly used every shade the eye can see. As a mixed-media artist, her verdant work is breath-taking.  I can’t help but admire her talent.

We move to her newer creations, and I can see how she’s progressing in her craft. She’s added splashes of pale colors and uneven textures that capture my attention and draw me into her vision. The smells run the gamut from fresh to loamy, and seem to add to the cacophony of the whole. She claps in delight as she takes in my reaction to it all.

Quite pleased with herself, she hugs me tightly. “See?” she whispers, “It’s not so bad. It’s just my turn on the wheel. Come on, let me show you something else I’m working on.” She brushes one of her long champagne curls from her face as she puts her finger to her lips, then motions for me to kneel down next to her. She pulls back some brush to reveal a litter of bunnies, just a few days old. I gasp, and she giggles, then pulls me away before the mother rabbit can see us.

She whirls me around in an ebullient dance, and just as I am getting my bearings, I notice the seedlings at the edge of the forest. I laugh, in spite of myself, “Witch Hazel? Really?” She roars, tears streaming down her face. “I couldn’t help it. The irony was too tempting. I knew if all else failed, you’d have to appreciate that, my beloved Witch.”

She does this to me every year; melts my heart with her playful presence. She draws me out of my introversion and brings me into her embrace. She never takes my reluctance as insult. Rather, she accepts the challenge with glee. She coaxes me back into my role as plant-whisperer and wildlife rescuer, every single time. I take her hand, and we dance in what will become a field of sunflowers. She lets go of my hand and pirouettes to the end one of the rows. I yell, “Spring has sprung!” and she guffaws as she waves and moves on. Next year, I’ll try not to be so reticent.

Kallan Kennedy is a Celtic-American Witch from the Mid-Atlantic region of the U.S. She is a writer, educator, public speaker and Morrigan-child. You can find her blogging at theamericanwitch.org or here at imramma.com. 

A Lover's Goodbye

"And I...will swallow my pride
You're the one that I love
And I'm saying goodbye...."

It's the last day of February, and I'm going to have to say farewell. The sun is already rising earlier, setting later, and the silence of snow-covered mornings is broken by the call of the songbirds.  March will enter like a lion or a lamb, ushering in spring's promises and busyness.  I'm clinging desperately to the visages, refusing to let go.

"...I'll be the one if you want me to

Anywhere I would've followed you..."

I want to hang on to my peaceful self-absorption, and my season of introversion. I want my long-sleeves, hats and mittens. I want to watch my dog wallow in the snow with unadulterated joy. I want to feel my breath stolen by a cold wind desperate for some warmth.  I want to see the moon glistening on the white blanket of my sleeping mother in the middle of the night.  I want to quietly contemplate what it means to be me, and not feel obligated to do anything more than just that.

"And I...I'm feeling so small

It was over my head

I know nothing at all..."

But, it isn't going to last. I see the writing on the proverbial wall. My lover is leaving me. He'll say nothing as he departs. He lets Spring do the talking. I don't know if I'll have another opportunity to see Winter again. I whisper, "Say something, I'm giving up on you."

A crow caws in the distance.

Friday Favorites: Winter's Homage

As I sit here writing, the temperatures in my little corner of the world have bottomed out, and it's so cold outside that the wind is trying to steal my breath to warm itself. Tomorrow, it'll be just at the freezing mark and snow is forecasted for the area. The next day, it's supposed to rise up to 41F (5C), which will most likely feel like a heatwave.  I wouldn't speed up this process for anything. Winter is meant to be cold, harsh and foreboding. It is also a time of rest, contemplation, and planning.

We tend to love the idea of winter during the solstice season. We want snow for Yule/Christmas. We just adore bundling up in sweaters, drinking hot chocolate, and curling up by a fire. When the holidays are over, the same weather we'd been lauding is now bleak and ugly. By February, even those complaining are tired of hearing themselves talk about it. It's all about perspective. Spring will come soon enough, and we'll be getting very busy with life again. It'll be much more hectic and there won't be time to think, much less contemplate or rest.

One of my favorite poets is Patricia Monaghan. Her book, "Seasons of the Witch," is an homage to the turning of the wheel. She crossed over the veil a few years ago, but her legacy lives in the pages of her works, and in the flames they ignite within our hearts.

Here is one of my favorites to read at this time of year.Maybe this will help my fellow winterlings endure:

Lying Fallow

     After storms, I walk the winter garden.
     In bone-time, I see the world's structure: the oak's drama, the ash's dance, the curtain of the alder. The shapes of innerness, the way the light falls on the open boughs, what it reveals of the past, the future.
     A flicker of red cardinal, that rough imperial presence.
     I walk the woodland path. Without distraction of hope, I see what is ending, ready to die. The ironwood, bark twisted around its narrow frame, its roots loosening in the earth. The tilting willow, about to relax unto death. The great old maple that soon will fall. Then my throat will tighten, my eyes flood. Now, I look without bitterness at the past, the future.
     No regrets. Only seeds. Everywhere, seeds. The past, the future. At the road, burdock holds up pointy fists. Beneath, yarrow stands, erect small soldiers. Grass catches wind, swooning to the ground and springing back. Rose hips gleam, and the last red firethorn.
     The special beauty of waiting. Patience and reserve. Proud bearing, infinite vulnerability. Things seen for what they are.
     Dark shadow on the snow; above me, crow calls.