Today’s Word for the Day from Grateful Living says so succinctly much of what I was trying to say in my post yesterday that I want to share it:

The old stories offer much wisdom that we can apply to current situations, usually in metaphorical ways. Yesterday it was a shock to see a Grimms fairy tale actually coming to life in a newspaper image:

Once upon a time a poor fisherman and his wife lived in a hovel beside the sea. Every day, the fisherman went to sea to catch fish to eat and to sell at the market. And every day, his wife spun her threads, strolled along the beach to look for clams, and swept & cleaned their poor home as best she could. And they were happy enough.

One morning, when the sea was a calm, deep blue, the fisherman set off in his boat as usual. As he rowed, he wondered at how flat and hospitable the sea was, with sparkles dancing upon it under the morning sun. At last, the fisherman cast his net. He waited a bit and then began to pull it in. It was almost too heavy to haul over the side of the boat. Ah, he thought, this fish is so big, I will get a good price at the market!

But as he reached down to untangle the great fish from the net, the fisherman saw the spirited spark of life shining from the fish’s dark eyes and noticed how the sun glinted off the magnificent silver scales, creating an exuberant dance of light. And the fish spoke. “Fisherman, only return me to my home and I shall grant you wishes.”

Gently, gently, the fisherman lifted the great fish and returned him to the beautiful, calm sea. The great leaped once, turning to look at the fisherman, and splashed back, swimming off into the deep blue.

Well, the fisherman cast his net again, and it returned full of fish to eat and fish to sell, so he returned home early to tell his wife about the morning’s magical encounter.

His wife listened with wide eyes and when he had finished, she waited for more. The fisherman was silent, his heart full of the magic and grace of the fish. But his wife became angry. “You fool! The fish promised wishes, but you didn’t even ask! Here we live in a hovel. You could at least have asked for a beautiful house! Go now,” she demanded, “and ask the fish!”

Sighing, the fisherman went back to the edge of the water and called, “Fish of the sea, Fish of the sea. Come grant a wish unto me.”

Soon he saw the fish rise and swim close to the shore. The fish leapt up and asked, “What do you wish?”

Apologetically, the fisherman said,”My wife would like a beautiful house.” “Go home said the fish, “It is already done.”

And sure enough, as he approached the spot where their hovel had been, he saw instead a large and sturdy house with many windows and, in back, small garden full of vegetables and flowers. As his wife opened the door, her face shone with joy and she greeted him with a hug.

But time passed, and the wife was tired of caring for such a large house and weary of work in the garden. There was little time left to spin or stroll along to stroll along the beach. She began to think. She began to frown. If I were king, she thought, I’d have a huge palace with servants to clean and work in the gardens.

“Husband,” she cried. “you must go to the fish. Tell him I want to be King!”

She shrieked and harangued her husband until finally he returned to the shore. He paused a moment to look at the sea which seemed gray and rough that morning. Wearily he called, “Fish of the sea, Fish of the sea. Come grant a wish unto me.” Soon the fish appeared and asked “What is it you want?”

Sadly, the fisherman said, “My wife asks to become a King.”

“Go home,” said the fish. “It is already done.”

And sure enough, the fisherman returned to a gleaming palace. It was surrounded by flower gardens and a small gleaming green lawn stretched proudly out in all directions. The fisherman’s wife showed off her golden crown and opened the golden door to display the gilded furniture within. “And the biggest roses ever!” she cried. “And the smooth and well-kept grass where we can play and dance!”

Gardeners and servants bustled about, and for a while, she was pleased. But even gold and roses grow tiresome when they are everywhere and, after a time, she because restless.

She called her husband to her and declared, “Being a king is not the greatest. I want to be Pope!” And no matter how he argued, she would not listen to reason.

The fisherman trudged back to the shore. The sea seemed darker, the waves grew higher. Still, he called out, “Fish of the sea, Fish of the sea. Come grant a wish unto me. My wife wishes to be Pope.”

The fist rose from the waves. With a dull shake of his tail, he replied, “Go home. It is already done.”

The fisherman returned to the golden palace to be greeted by his wife in white papal robes of heavily brocaded satin. Her golden crown now hung on the hat rack and she wore instead a pope’s mitre exquisitely embroidered with golden threads. “You must bow before me,” she said.

And so it went and she was happy for a time. But then she began to notice that all the prayers that surrounded her were addressed not to her but to God. Indeed, even she had to pray to God. She shook her head so hard the glorious mitre trembled. “It is not enough!” she decreed. I will be God.” She pointed at her trembling husband. “Go tell the fish!”

Shaking his head, shaking all over, the fisherman made his way down to the raging sea. His call for the fish was drowned by the roar to the black waves. Still the fish appeared, leaping high to see the fisherman over the foam. “What is it you want?”

The fisherman wept, “My wife wants to be God.”

“Go home,” said the fish. “Go home to your hovel.”

And sure enough, where the shining palace had stood among resplendent green lawns, there now was, on the pebbly beach, only a hovel, sagging even more after such long inattention. Waves washed up to the threshold. The fisherman approached the splintery door….

Yes. You’ve guessed correctly. The image I saw was the AI photo that Trump posted, showing himself in a Pope’s robes. Not enough to be a mere president, he had already declared himself King of the country, saying (among other things) “I own it.” Now the fantasy of being a Pope….. It seems he is using this old tale as his playbook, but I don’t think he has listened to the end!

[Footnote: I hate the traditional sexist image of the nagging wife. Next time I’ll tell it differently.]

In the end, which character is really most grievously entangled and trapped in a net?

I am reminded of Loki, the Norse Trickster god. While hiding from all the other gods he has insulted, Loki invented the fishing net to catch his dinner.

Not long after, Loki turns into a salmon to escape his pursuers, who finally catch him in his own net……

There are many kinds of nets.

Fire Women – MCK

Today is Beltane, one of the 4 Fire Festivals of the ancient Celtic calendar. It celebrates the turn into Summer with all its generativity, generosity, and abundance. Given the chaos and the threats that surround us, I am having a hard time feeling my way into that joyful celebration.

But, when I stepped out of the house this morning, I was — as always — surrounded by birdsong and the green growing world, reminding me that the greater-than-human world — & many humans too — are doing their best to kindle the promise of Beltane. I remember that the fires of Beltane are lit for protection and purification. In this chaotic time of swirling negative energies, we have a great need of such protection — and we are the ones who must offer it to all. We each must kindle our own inner fires of positive creativity, dedicated to enlivenment and the good of all. We are the fire-carriers.

May 1 has also, more recently, become a time to protest injustice. Today, as protests abound throughout my nation, I can sense the connection between the old & new. Both are turnings towards Life.

Let’s offer our support to each other and remind ourselves to:

"Keep our anger from becoming meanness.

Keep our sorrow from collapsing into self-pity.

Keep our hearts soft enough to keep breaking.

Keep our outrage turned towards justice, not cruelty.

Remind us that all of this, every bit of it, is for love."

Keep us fiercely kind.

						~ Laura Jean Truman

I grew up in the American Midwest where March was always the most unpredictable of months. In those days, the first crocuses and daffodils would emerge…..but they often ended up buried under the biggest snowstorm of the season — as if winter just couldn’t resist a final punch.

Some years ago, while living in Virginia, I visited Vermont in March. It was, as New Englanders say, “mud season.” I was invigorated by the cool weather, as well as by my interview at the amazing, nontraditional School of International Training (from which I subsequently received my MAT in English as a 2nd Language).

Upon my return to a more placid March in the south, I wrote a sort of paean to my joyful experience up north:

MUD SEASON - Margery Knott


Sometime in March, the wind
takes out her teeth and mumbles
new incantations over the land; she
unfastens her long gray locks and
lets her mane stream out like fingers that tease
the last tatters of snow 
into runnels and rivulets and unseen seepage,
working toward bedrock.
Oh, even without her sharpest bite
she stirs things up, the old witch!

Over her shoulder she sees the sun slipping
northward, and and the wind knows it’s now
or never
if she’s going to wake things up, if she’s going to
make it all possible
before he claims dominion; she’s got to
hustle fast.

She rolls up her sleeves and stretches
strong hands over the world.
And everything is breaking loose:
ice slabs rioting in the river,
mud on the road so deep it can
pull off your shoe — hell! it can
pull you in up to your knees so that
you have to wait until the neighbor
happens by with a tractor —
and even then
it’s no sure thing.

Once the flow starts, there aren’t too many
sure things — what with people sinking down
and rocks popping up: the biggest rocks
you can imagine breaching the surface like whales —
rocks big enough
to burst a tire or knock you right off the road
if you’re foolish enough to take the wheel when
the wind sets the world to flowing and
invites you into the dance.

Now it’s 2025 and, as I read this poem, I can’t help wondering if I can learn to find shreds of such hope and energy in the midst of the governmental mudslides that are currently ripping my country apart, threatening lives as well livelihoods & burying our foundational Constitution and the rule of law. Well, as the familiar quote attributed to Nietzsche says, “One must still have chaos within oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.” Dare I hope that the breaking up and cracking apart of the ice on which we’ve long been skating — thinking it will last forever — will fail to drown us? that we might imagine and learn a new way of moving?

In his thought-provoking book The Other Within: The Genius of Deformity in Myth, Culture, and Psyche (p. 189), the late mythsinger/storyteller Daniel Deardorff points out when something disrupts our habitual sense of logic “and the rock-solid facts of life disintegrate…– sinking in quicksand, one suddenly re-members ‘what matters‘ ….”

What truly matters most to you?
-- a good question for each of us to ponder--

So – – – it’s March. And I can’t help thinking about the delightful English idiom “mad as a March hare,” a saying derived from the odd leaps and sometimes pugilistic antics of hares during their mating season & meaning “crazy, deranged, violently out of control.” (For examples of folks to whom the phrase might apply, check out the news.). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1E95_38I2h4

But it’s worth remembering that the March hares are “crazy” during their breeding season. What follows is new birth, new life. What is waiting to be born in our world? Can we make a difference? Can we base our new ways on what matters most?

As I reread this old poem, what I seem to be reminding myself is that I must stay alert — experiencing the chaos not as a reason to quit or to despair but as a source of energy into which we can tap to create something better. We are in the middle of a leap. Taking into account what truly matters to us, let’s be careful how & where we land.

Art by ANGELA HARDING –calendar illustration for March

Here in North Carolina, March is the time for early planting of many flowers and vegetables Add beauty by planting seeds for columbine, hollyhock, coreopsis, daisy, phlox, and dianthus. Begin growing food for the year — planting seeds of beets, carrots, kale, lettuce, Swiss chard, turnips, potatoes, cabbage, broccoli, and cauliflower. Some plants — like tomato, eggplant, peppers — are not hardy enough to face possible late frosts, but you can still plant their seeds in the shelter of your home, keeping them safe until they grow strong enough to come out into the world.

What seeds are we planting today — not only in indoor pots & in backyard gardens, but in the larger “gardens” of our hearts & our cultures and of the wide, wild world?

Throw Yourself Like Seed

Shake off this sadness, and recover your spirit
sluggish you will never see the wheel of fate
that brushes your heel as it turns going by,
the man who wants to live is the man in whom life is abundant.

Now you are only giving food to that final pain
which is slowly winding you in the nets of death,
but to live is to work, and the only thing which lasts
is the work; start then, turn to the work.

Throw yourself like seed as you walk, and into your own field,
don’t turn your face for that would be to turn it to death,
and do not let the past weigh down your motion.

Leave what’s alive in the furrow, what’s dead in yourself,
for life does not move in the same way as a group of clouds;
from your work you will be able one day to gather yourself.

~ Miguel De Unamuno ~
(Roots and Wings, edited and translated by Robert Bly)

What is my work? What is yours?

As Pete Seeger sang: “Step by step the longest march can be won...”

Wishing you a fertile March and a joyful march!

Time passes. We change. The external world changes. Among all the shiftings (internal & external), it is sometimes hard to find my footing.

I recently picked up an entrelac hat I’d been happily knitting about 15 years ago & had somehow lost in the back of a drawer.

I’ve done no knitting at all for about 5 years, but still I sat down confidently to complete the hat, remembering what fun it had been to learn the somewhat complicated pattern. I looked at the directions. I looked at the hat. Nothing made sense…… After much procrastination, this week I finally asked for help from the wonderful woman at a local yarn store. I hope I can continue on my own. Wish me luck!

I feel as if something similar is going on in my relationship with WordPress. During my long absences from Trickster’s Hoard, Trickster has been at work and things at WordPress have been changing. I have not yet figured out how to reply to your comments under the new regime. Please know that each comment is important to me. Without your encouragement, I doubt I could find to audacity to keep sending my words out into the world. Thank you, each and everyone, for reaching out over the years. And whether you are an active commenter or prefer to remain silent, you are helping me do this work. You are enlivening me. I am grateful.

In case you missed it, I want to repeat the blessing by John O’Donohue (from To Bless the Space Between Us) that Marti shared in her comment.

“Let us remember within us
The Ancient Clay.
Holding the memory of seasons,
The passion of the wind,
The fluency of water,
The warmth of fire,
The quiver-touch of the sun,
And shadowed sureness of the sun.

That we may awaken,
To live to the full
The dream of the Earth
Who chose us to emerge
And incarnate its hidden night
In mind, spirit and light.”

“And incarnate its hidden night
In mind, spirit and light.”

This morning, high up on a branch of
the old, winter bare oak,
a single large crow sat –
still and silent.
Meanwhile, unseen in a tangle of
creekside vines and bushes,
a carolina wren pierced me
again and again with his
loud insistent song.

The crow’s pose made a strong image, seeming full of portent and omen, starkly visible against the sky. Still, the repetitive notes of the hidden wren kept tugging at my attention. The wren was — to use the old but accurate cliché — singing his heart out, flinging his very being into the cold gusts of this February morning.

Isn't that what we are all called to do? 
-- to "sing our hearts out" in whatever way we can .

For the past month, I have been feeling dark, depressed, overwhelmed by many different things. The political situation in which we find ourselves here in the U.S. has created an intense anxiety that somehow magnifies even small and unrelated concerns. How can there be such deliberate cruelty and planned devastation?

I have not been writing, have not been having conversations with my beloved fibers. Waking tired and heavy every day, I have forgotten my morning routines of dancing and going outside to greet Old Oak and the 4 Directions.

When I came across this poem last week, I felt that the poet was whispering it directly into my ear:

darling, you feel heavy
because you are
too full of truth.
​
open your mouth more.
let the truth exist
somewhere other than
inside your body.

―Della Hicks-Wilson

I had not been releasing my truths into the world through word or dance or making or even through embodied gratitude to the larger, wilder world. I remembered the passage from the 2nd century Gospel of Thomas:

“If you bring forth what is within you, 
what you bring forth will save you. 
If you do not bring forth what is within you, 
what you do not bring forth will destroy you.”

Shall I keep my heart clenched protectively like a fist around my fear, grief, and pain? Or shall I open my heart to let the songs fly out? Today I got up and danced. I went out into the beautifully icy air and spoke aloud my gratitude to all the beings that surround me — ever embracing me and offering me my place in this amazing world. My heart opened. I went into my studio to resume my work with the fibers. Now I am sitting here, letting my fingers play with words. I am letting myself come alive, remembering Carrie Newcomer’s instruction to “keep practicing resurrection.”

Several weeks ago I was surprised to find this poem by Mary Oliver — a poem different from her poems of astonishment and praise, a poem that speaks directly to us and to our over-culture.

Of The Empire ~ by Mary Oliver, Red Bird (2008)

"We will be known as a culture that feared death
and adored power, that tried to vanquish insecurity
for the few and cared little for the penury of the
many. We will be known as a culture that taught
and rewarded the amassing of things, that spoke
little if at all about the quality of life for
people (other people), for dogs, for rivers. All
the world, in our eyes, they will say, was a
commodity. And they will say that this structure
was held together politically, which it was, and
they will say also that our politics was no more
than an apparatus to accommodate the feelings of
the heart, and that the heart, in those days,
was small, and hard, and full of meanness."

Keeping our hearts open, even — or especially — in the face of destructive chaos, is essential. I must remember to open my heart’s door, to let my truths step over the threshold and join this wide, wild world — to keep singing my heart out.

And for us all, 
a blessing from John O'Donohue:

Beannacht / Blessing

"On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets into you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green
and azure blue,
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life."

                                  John O’Donohue 

We have no idea what tomorrow will bring, 
but today is overflowing with potential.

— Alan Lokos https://grateful.org/

Last Saturday I took part in Mythsinger’s end of the year Story celebration. It was a sacred time — from the calling of the 6 Directions and the Ancestors to the concluding Feeding of the Stories, where we each shared how the stories were speaking uniquely to each of us. We had the joy of experiencing 3 creation stories (video recording) as told by the late storyteller and singer Danny Deardorff. Danny told creation tales from Norse myth, from ancient Sumeria, and from the Mataco people of South America. The stories were told together not for us to dissect and compare but to allow the stories to sing with each other & to create new music, new resonance in our hearts and imaginations.

It was such a rich time that I am still immersed in the stories & the way they each dreamed drums and trees….

The Mataco story (from Icanchu’s Drum by Lawrence E. Sullivan) has kept me in its fierce embrace. I tell it here based on Danny’s telling, with gratitude to the Mataco people of South America who gave birth to the story and gratitude to Danny & all the other storytellers whose breath has kept the story alive over the years. The last 2 sentences are Danny’s. I add my affirmation and blessing to his.

*******

In that time, they say, a fire began. And it spread and spread, and it was joined by other fires until soon the whole world was ablaze, entirely clothed in leaping flames. Soon there was nothing left, they say, but ashes — The rivers & seas were dry, the forests and prairies gone. Everywhere, just ashes, ashes, ashes. The world was gray. Every so often a wind would blow, stirring the ashes, and then even the air was gray.

When the great Icanchu and his companion Chuña returned to this world from their travels, they saw only ashes. There was nothing to tell them where they were or where their home was to be found. On and on they trudged through the ashes. Looking ahead and seeing only gray ash, Icanchu cried, “How can we tell where we are going?” As a passing wind stirred the ashes, his companion looked behind and saw their tracks disappearing. “And how can we tell where we’ve been?” he sobbed. “How will we even know if we get to our home?”

Still they trudged, shuffling through the deep gray ashes ….. Suddenly, far in the distance, they saw another figure approaching. “At last!” they exclaimed. “We are not alone!” They kept walking and the figure kept getting closer and closer until, finally, they could see his features. “Oh no, it is Tokwaj!” they screamed and they turned away, for they knew Tokwaj was a mighty trickster. They walked the other way, but when they looked up they once again saw Tokwaj in front of them, and he was getting closer. Again, they turned and fled. Again, they found Tokwaj getting closer still. Closer, closer with each turning — until one time they turned and found themselves face to face with the Trickster. And he was smiling.

“Please, Tokwaj, don’t hurt us. We are the only ones left. We just want to find our homeplace, but everywhere looks the same buried under gray ashes.”

Tokwaj smiled that smile and said, ” I can help you, Icanchu. Just put your arm straight in front of you and point your finger. Follow your finger wherever it leads. When you get to your own homeplace, your finger will remember. The place will pull it so it points to the earth. Stop there.” And before they could thank him, Tokwaj was gone.

Icanchu straightened his arm in front of him and, pointing his finger, off they trudged through the gray, gray world. Time passed and Chuña shook his head in despair, but Icanchu kept following his finger and Chuña kept following Icanchu through the ashes.

And a time did come, a time when Icanchu felt his finger pulled down by a force so great, it was as if a bear had caught his finger in its jaws and was dragging it down to his lair.

They stopped.

“Is this is our homeplace?” Icanchu wondered. “Maybe we can find something to tell us it is so.” And they kicked at the ashes and then began to dig. Down and down they dug, sifting through the fine dry ash, until Icanchu cried, “I have touched something!” Faster and faster they dug, until — at last– they saw a lump of charcoal emerging from the ashes. Brushing it free of the last of the ash, they saw that it was the stump of an old, old tree.

Oh, it was such a beautiful glossy black in the midst of all the gray powder! It seemed to be the only solid thing in a world of the ash! Icanchu gave it a thump, just to be sure….then another thump…. and… he began to drum on that old stump! When Chuña heard that steady beat, he opened his mouth and began to sing. And drumming and singing, the two began to dance to the new music that was arising into the world’s silence. And all day and all night they drummed and sang and danced without stopping.

As the sun began to rise, they looked at each other — all sweaty and streaked with ash — and they laughed. Then they looked at the drum, at the stump of charcoal. Out of it had sprung a bright green sprout! And still they drummed and sang and danced, and so the sprout grew and grew…..into a tremendous tree! And they saw that each branch of the tree was different — different leaves, different shape, different bark — one branch for each kind of tree that would grow in the world. And each branch bore blossoms, which — as they sang and danced — ripened into fruits of many kinds. One prickly fruit fell down and spit open — and out streamed all the kinds of creatures who would live in the world. From a smooth pod, seeds spilled or as Icanchu and Chuña danced.

It was the First Tree on the First Day, so they say.

And we must remember:

Any tree may be the First Tree!
Any day may be the First Day!

*******

Something in Danny’s closing words ignited my heart with a different kind of fire, not a destroyer but the warming fire of life.

I have been so worried about all the negative and destructive things that are going on in our world — and about the things that will likely happen in this coming year. I even thought that wearing black to the New Year’s Eve dinner might be appropriate as we bid farewell to 2024 and open the door to 2025.

But the Mataco story shows me another way. Perhaps, whether literally or metaphorically, we can drum & dance & sing a new world into being. I have decided that instead of cowering before this coming year, I will greet it exuberantly — insisting on the presence of Possibility!

Yesterday, as a place to begin, I made a colorful scarf to wear to this evening’s get-together. The photo doesn’t show it, but it is alive with sparkles. To create liveliness in the face of anxiety and grief was more liberating than I can say!

In spite of whatever may arise — personally or globally — during the coming year, let’s do what we can to make the year beautiful.

“Beauty will save the world.”

— Dostoevsky

…Something to think about in the days ahead…