Four deer emerge from the woods, approach my house -- opening all the doors.
Once again, it is beauty/delight/awe that saves me, that reminds me there are always larger-than-human mysteries.
For almost two months, I have been delighting in this exquisite palace, built between screen and pane near the table where we eat.
A hammock platform stretches the width of the window. In the upper righthand corner a small, densely woven cave provides the weaver with a safe den above the elaborate architecture of the main web (into which I’ve never seen the spider descend.)
Since I’ve seen the spider only from the side I cannot tell which species he or she is, but her web looks most like that of a “curtain spider.” Somehow the application of a human-made name or classification doesn’t matter to me. It is the mysterious beauty and complexity of her creation that intrigues me. She is an artist, one I can only envy and applaud.
Cooler weather is coming. The left side of the tunneled area has been slightly damaged by wind and heavy rain. But still she was there this morning — another opener of doors in my world. I wish I could magically enter her tunnels to discover how they interconnect, to see where they might lead me.
Today is Winter Solstice here in the Northern Hemisphere. The sun, which has been moving further and further south for the last six months, appears to pause its journey — seeming to stand still before turning northward once again. Over the millennia, the Winter Solstice has been almost universally considered a sacred time in human cultures, promising the continuation and renewal of light and of life.
I always feel the Winter Solstice viscerally, as if my long ago ancestors were waking in my bones — a potent time of turning, of beginning again. But this year, even as I celebrate the returning light, I see us collectively moving deeper in a darkness of our own making. The dissonance feels like an insoluble koan in which I must rest, from which I must somehow make meaning.
I know, as Padraig O Tuama has written, “You will find meaning where you give meaning. The answer is in a story and the story isn’t finished.”
Do we see ourselves merely as characters in someone else’s Story? Or are we ourselves the ones telling the Story? Either way, the Story takes on a life of its own.
The Nigerian-British writer Ben Okri speaks much about the power of story for good and for ill & I’ve quoted him often here over the years. Here are some fragments from his little book Birds of Heaven which speak to our times:
"Stories can be either bacteria or light: they can infect a system, or illuminate a world."
"To poison a nation, poison its stories. .... Beware of the story-telllers who are ...irresponsible in the application of their art: they could unwittingly help along the psychic destruction of their people."
At the moment, we seem to be suffering from a pandemic of cruel stories and outright lies. Where is the medicine we need? It lies in the stories that illuminate and heal rather than hide and destroy. It is vital that we tell and retell those stories.
*******
Here is a story that has been very present to me for the last few months. Certainly the actions in the tale spoke to me strongly as, for week upon week, I wove and un-wove and re-wove and un-wove the tapestry for Faces of the Forest . But, deeper than that, the story is telling me something I need to know about the dark times we are in. Whatever the reason, the story holds me in its fierce embrace & asks that I share it with you.
I first encountered it as told, with a Celtic flavor, by Sharon Blackie . I met it again in November, in Michael Meade’s book Why the World Doesn’t End, and then, if I remember right, most recently in a posting by Sharon Blackie, who mentioned that the story originated with the Lakota people.
I give my deepest gratitude to the Lakota tellers who first opened themselves to the story and whose breath and spirit called it into being. And I give thanks to all the storytellers who have, in their own ways, generously lent their breath and spirits to keep the story alive through the years
*******
Somewhere, just at the edge of the place where you dwell — whether prairie or forest, farm or city, mountain or coast — there is a cave, a cave so well hidden that those who have searched have never found it. And in the cave, two beings dwell in harmony. One is a very old woman, so old that even she doesn’t know how or where she came into being. Her face is beautiful, carved and darkened by the flow of time. And with her there lives a large black dog. He, too, is old beyond knowing. He has always been with her, and she with him
The cave is sparsely furnished. There is only room for a large loom and a fire pit encircled with stones. In the pit, a fire burns, and the fire too is so old that even the old woman doesn’t know who first kindled its flames. Over the pit hangs a large clay pot filled with a stew of berries and herbs and seeds and roots and water from an ancient spring — a delicious soup that simmers and bubbles gently, its sweet aroma drifting now and then out of the cave to touch the lands and waters beyond.
All day and all night the old woman stands at her loom weaving and weaving, making the most beautiful garment of yarns thick and thin, a tapestry of such colors and skill as have never before been seen. As she weaves, the old dog dozes and the soup simmers and the garment grows.
Every now and then, the soup begins to burble and gurgle with such loud energy that it catches the ear of the old woman and wakes the dog. Slowly the old woman turns from her loom and hobbles towards the fire. With a long-handled spoon of horn, she stirs and stirs the soup, making sure it doesn’t burn.
The old black dog watches the old woman as she moves across the cave, and that old dog stands up and walks over to the loom. Quickly he bites and pulls and rips and tears the garment from its loom, then returns quietly to his place.
When the old woman finishes her stirring, she returns to find the loom empty and a heap of shredded and raveled yarns tossed upon the floor of the cave. I don’t know if she sighs but I know she is curious, for she bends down and looks and looks at the chaos of tangled textures and hues. Finally one thread catches her attention, calls to her hands. Smiling, she picks it up and begins to weave a new garment. It is a tapestry shimmering with skill and magic, perhaps even more beautiful than the last. And so she weaves and weaves, always listening to the song of the soup; and when it is time, she turns to stir.
I don’t know if this is exactly how it happens, but I know that it is true.
*******
Ben Okri says, “In bad stories words cancel themselves out, and nothing is left. The words return to the source; they desert the page; only meaningless marks are left behind. …. Stories are always a form of resistance. …. The true story-teller suffers the chaos and the madness, the nightmare — resolves it all, sees it clearly, and guides you surely through the fragmentation and the shifting world.”
Let us resolve to tell only good stories, stories that, like the returning sun, illuminate and enliven.
*******
And please forgive me for posting yet again, my old, old poem. It is, as always, my prayer for the Winter Solstice — perhaps now more than ever.
Turning
Now the earth slides faster down the long dark days towards Solstice. We’ve been flung almost too far from the center, skidding violently along the curve of space.
The pace presses me flat against the rocks, among the dried debris of summer. Blackberry canes snarl my hair; faded petals or leaves, compressed beyond recognition, cling to my lips and eyes.
Oh, it’s a long slide down to the Solstice.
But we shall be tugged sunward at last on gravity’s leash: a cosmic crack-the-whip.
We’ll hit the corner flying and careen round into who knows what great wind of passage.
Even I may be blown clear out of this cave, clean onto my feet.
Lifting my arms to layer upon layer of translucent color cupped to Earth’s curve, I’ll feel the thrust of the planet beneath my feet. Gulping air straight from Arctic floes, I’ll raise my face to the icy stab of Orion’s sword and roar for joy.
Sometime in the last several days, I decided (realized?) that — whatever the future might hold — the important thing was to not be afraid, for it is fear that has brought us to the place where we are in the U.S.
And just now, as I was typing, I remembered a prayer/blessing/reminder that says exactly that:
"The world is a narrow bridge, and the most important thing is not to be afraid."
--Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, early 1800s --
Yesterday, instead of letting anxiety overwhelm me (as it has so often these last months), I found — or was given — a place of peace, a firm footing, the sense of rootedness and holding that Old Oak, growing on the side of very steep slope, has been trying to teach me.
I didn’t stay up late last night waiting for the election results. This morning I began the day (as I have been doing most days lately) by choosing a song [today, The Grateful Dead’s “Ripple”] and dancing — dancing back into my body, into the present moment. Then I was ready find out what had happened, to read the news.
I am deeply, deeply saddened that more than half the voters in my country have chosen to move forward on paths that seem to be paved with anger and fears — both their own (which are real) & those they were taught through the telling and re-telling of false stories.
As so often, I turned to poetry for help.
William Carlos Williams wrote :
“It is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.”
These 2 poems gave me some news of the world as it is — and hints about what I am/we are called to do in response.
A Ritual to Read to Each Other by William E. Stafford
"If you don't know the kind of person I am and I don't know the kind of person you are a pattern that others made may prevail in the world and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.
For there is many a small betrayal in the mind, a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood storming out to play through the broken dike.
And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail, but if one wanders the circus won't find the park, I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.
And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy, a remote important region in all who talk: though we could fool each other, we should consider— lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.
For it is important that awake people be awake, or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep; the signals we give — yes or no, or maybe — should be clear: the darkness around us is deep."
Narrative Theology #1 by Padraig O Tuama
"And I said to him: Are there answers to all of this? And he said: The answer is in a story and the story is being told. And I said: But there is so much pain. And she answered, plainly: Pain will happen. Then I said: Will I ever find meaning? And they said: You will find meaning where you give meaning. The answer is in a story and the story isn’t finished."
*******
On a lighter note, last night my husband got up and went into the dark kitchen to get a drink of water. He picked up yesterday’s water mug but, rather than drinking from it as usual, he first emptied it into the sink. He felt something crawling onto his hand and flung the thing off. Then he turned on a light. It was a tree frog! How did it get into the house, let alone into a mug on the kitchen counter? He carefully carried it out into its usual world. (Unfortunately, he didn’t take a picture.) I take the frog’s presence as a good omen. In many cultures, a frog is a sign of healing. May it be so.
I am sending you all love & blessings & prayers for peace. May we remember and tell the good stories — the ones that bring Light, Life, Compassion, and Kindness into our hearts & into the world.
But balance is not mere stasis. And just now it is the movements, the transitions that maintain the balance, that are delighting me.
The summer’s “duck dramas” on the pond seem to be winding down. Mysteries remain: early in the spring Mama Merganser and her 9 ducklings disappeared overnight as did Mallard Mama #3 and her six little ones about a month ago. Still Mallard Mamas #1 and #2 each successfully raised 2 of the 4 ducklings with which each began. Family #1 has flown. The second family still spends some time in the pond, and every day that we see those three we sigh with satisfaction, like proud grandparents.
So much continues to happen all around me every day.
Several days ago I received a prompt suggesting that I write — in 10 minutes — a poem following the structure and including the beginning & ending lines of an old Celtic verse: “I have news for you.” and “This is my news for you.” I thought it would be fun to try writing it with some of the things I’d seen during the past week. Here I’ve tidied it up a bit, but I am still surprised by where the hasty writing lead me:
APPROACHING THE AUTUMN EQUINOX
I have news for you:
Each evening, the sun sinks earlier under
the comforting wing of night.
Drought departs and rains
offer a final chance for ripening.
Leaves hold their green, but colder winds
hint at the limits of growth.
Every day the woodpeckers
create their cache,
packing seeds in the deep crevices and
wrinkles of old oak's skin.
The deer begin to gather.
New antlers adorn feisty young bucks
while the does patiently prepare for
next year's fecundity.
One bright morning
this year's fawn emerged alone from the woods --
just the faintest echo of dappling
lingering along her flank.
She paused to stare at this intruder in her meadow,
then sprang exuberantly
-- leap after arcing leap --
up and over the hill.
This is my news for you:
Prepare to change.
The last few weeks, I’ve been thinking about how I’ve been “not-writing” for Trickster’s Hoard. There have been plenty of amazing moments to share — ones I’ve liked, ones I haven’t enjoyed, and many many that have been so awesome that the words allude me. In fact, I’ve believed that my lack of communication has been about my lack of words. But, a couple days ago, I realized that this wasn’t the whole problem, that I’d somehow slipped back into my own fearful self that felt safer being silent. I’ve failed to reach out & share — as so many of you do, so beautifully in your blogs! In other words, I’ve been “hoarding.” Then I remembered the reason I’d named the site “Trickster’s Hoard.”
This morning I went back to read the first of my 100 posts, explaining the name:
For the last 15 years or more I’ve been haunted by the Trickster Spirit as he appears in cultures around the world. I’ve studied him diligently in anthropology texts and read volume upon volume analyzing his tales. But Trickster doesn’t live in categories or theories. He doesn’t dwell on the printed page. Trickster — like Life itself — is present only in movement, relationship, and change. If, in a story, he is cut into pieces, he puts himself back together and goes on his way. No one can truly capture his essence, but storytellers, poets, and artists do invite you to glimpse and participate in his many facets. Trickster is Change & he changes the world.
When I attempted to analyze or describe Trickster in approved academic fashion, to pin him down like a specimen in a museum, he just slipped off the page and, laughing, danced off to other adventures. Finally I realized that all the time I’d been trying to “understand” him, he’d been trying to invite me to play, to explore my own transformation, to engage with the world in all its guises.
Trickster Spirit is a paradox. Whatever you can say about him, the opposite is also true. For example, among the Akan-Ashanti of West Africa, the Trickster (Anansi, the Spider) not only scattered the world’s Wisdom among the people but also, in other stories, brought the people Disease and Death. Among the Diné of the American Southwest, Trickster (Ma’i, Coyote) is a source of both healing and witchcraft.
So, is he a culture hero? Yes. Or the source of trouble? Yes. Or a character in instructive morality tales? Yes. On & on… The only things I might dare say about Trickster are that he is insatiably hungry, insatiably curious, and an inveterate boundary-crosser and transformer. In many of his stories, Trickster brings things out of hiding or tricks others into giving them to him. Then, most often (as in next week’s story), Trickster inadvertently spills his cherished hoard out into the world.
Hence, this blog. For far too long, I’ve kept my weavings of words, fiber, and ideas safely hidden in closed boxes. Now, in response to Trickster’s prodding , I’ll open some of those boxes, spill out the contents, and see what happens.
trickstershoard.com March 21, 2021
Well, all I can say is that Trickster has been at work in my life again — not, this time, inviting me into the Dance but rolling up the dance floor the way Raven rolled up the Beaver’s house & their lake and tucked the bundle under his arm. [see story, Oct. 15, 2021] The Beavers were were diligent in pursuing their lost belongings. They couldn’t catch Raven, but they kept gnawing down his roosts until at last he flew off — spilling the sweet waters, giving them not to the Beavers who’d hoarded them, but making lakes, ponds, rivers for all the people. What will happen if I shake off my inertia & begin to chase Trickster in earnest. As Einstein said, “Nothing happens until something moves.” Hmmmm…. we’ll see……
The surge of new Spring life here continues with all its drama. For several weeks earlier this spring, our community pond hosted a hooded merganser and her 8 babies. Mergansers are diving birds and it was pure delight to watch the little ones discover their powers — diving deep & bobbing back up, again & again.
photo by another member of our community
Then suddenly — overnight — the whole family disappeared. We all miss them. The ducklings were not yet fledged. There was no evidence that the resident hawk or marauding raccoons had been at work. I guess it will remain a mystery.
In recent weeks, a mallard and her 4 babies have been a joy. Then one day last week there were only 3 to be seen.
We suspect one of the pond’s turtles got the 4th.
This morning there only 2 ducklings.
Neighborhood ponds have lots of Canadian geese & goslings. Even the little retention pond next to the local grocery store hosts both ducks and geese. The fluffy babies there have grown into gangly adolescents — They are just beginning to get their feathers & look like they’re still working out how to gracefully coordinate longer necks & legs.
[There were lots of Canadian geese here when we arrived summer but — much my sorrow — not everyone shares my passion for these beautiful birds & the administration hires someone to chase them away. Sigh… ]
A great gray heron visits the pond here occasionally, always bringing joy to anyone watching. Who can resist their stately, patient stance or their majestic wingspread as they fly, with neck folded in an S and legs trailing. Magical beings. There are many indigenous stories about Heron, gathered from all over Turtle Island. And, even though herons aren’t related to cranes, I can’t help thinking of them in relation to all the old European stories & myths of cranes. Liminal birds — shape-shifters dwelling at the intersection of many worlds.
Last night, the tiniest frog I have seen hopped across the pond path in front of me. It must have been a Little Grass Frog, the smallest frog in North America. This photo by Tracy Welker https://fineartamerica.com/featured/little-grass-frog-tracy-welker.html will give you an idea of the size. The memory of this tiny being — intricate of form & acting according to its own purpose — still floods me with awe & simple happiness.
Such diversity and so much beauty in this incredible world — an astonishing interweaving of all into One — a multi-dimensional tapestry, the great feast we call Life — with each being always becoming something new. I am filled with gratitude, humbled to be both a witness to and a part of it all!
Messenger by Mary Oliver
"My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird —
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,
which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever."
~ Mary Oliver ~
Life is a process
~~ always beginning ~~
-- emerging, opening, changing, transforming --
~~ beginning again~~
.
.
.
and
it takes
Time.
BEGIN
March 27 – First Buds
DARE
April 1- Emerging
OPEN
April 4 – First Flowering
BLOOM
April 9 – Full Flowering
TRANSFORM
April 15 – First Leaves
BE GENEROUS
April 20 – Transforming the Sunlight
And these words by Mary Oliver about her friend, the great poet & devoted gardener Stanley Kunitz
STANLEY KUNITZ by Mary Oliver
I used to imagine him
coming from the house, like Merlin
strolling with important gestures
through the garden
where everything grows so thickly,
where birds sing, little snakes lie
on the boughs, thinking of nothing
but their own good lives,
where petals float upward,
their colors exploding,
and trees open their moist
pages of thunder --
it has happened every summer for years.
But now I know more
about the great wheel of growth,
and decay, and rebirth,
and know my vision for a falsehood.
Now I see him coming from the house --
I see him on his knees,
cutting away the diseased, the superfluous,
coaxing the new,
knowing that the hour of fulfillment
is buried in years of patience --
yet willing to labor like that
on the mortal wheel.
Oh, what good it does the heart
to know it isn't magic!
Like the human child I am
I rush to imitate --
I watch him as he bends
among the leaves and vines
to hook some weed or other;
even when I do not see him,
I think of him there
raking and trimming, stirring up
those sheets of fire
between the smothering weights of earth,
the wild and shapeless air.
In the library last week I spotted a book of Mary Oliver’s poems with which I was not familiar. I picked it up, opened it randomly, and found this poem.
HEART POEM by Mary Oliver
My heart, that used to pump along so pleasantly,
has come now to a different sort of music.
There is someone inside those red walls, irritated
and even, occasionally, irrational.
Years ago I was part of an orchestra; our conductor
was a wild man. He was forever rapping the music-
stand for silence. Then he would call out some
correction and we would begin again.
Now again it is a wild man.
I remember the music shattering, and our desperate
attentiveness.
Once he flung the baton over our heads and into
the midst of the players. It flew over the violins
and landed next to a bass fiddle. It flopped to the
floor. What silence! The someone picked it up
and it was passed forward back to him. He rapped
the stand and raised his arms. Then we all breathed
again, and the music restarted.
I had to smile. What a beautiful description!!!
The local cardiologists, surgeons, and electrophysiologists have all conferred & told me that there is nothing more that they can do to help my heart. They did, however, enthusiastically suggest that, since the leakage in my tricuspid valve is “torrential,” I might be a good candidate for participation in a research trial involving a new procedure developed by Abbott Labs. One of the trials is being held in a large medical facility only an hour and a half away, so they sent off my records & I settled down to wait for a response, wondering, hoping. At length, the doctor running the trial called me down to Charlotte for yet another echo-cardiogram & a clear, enthusiastic,and quite fascinating explanation of the procedure. The doctor said that one trial had just been completed elsewhere with exciting results and that “You’ll be reading about it!” [And sure enough — yesterday (3/5) the NY Times had a long article describing the symptoms and the trial’s excellent results: https://www.nytimes.com/2023/03/04/health/tricuspid-valve-clip-leakage.html]
I was told that during the next few days, the research team would meet to discuss my case & by the end of the week they’d call back with a schedule of tests needed before the procedure.
Indeed, a call came, not to offer a schedule but to set up an appointment to talk with the doctor. I knew then what to expect. Every time a doctor talks to me, the first sentence is “You know your case is very complicated.” The ensuing conversation with this doctor began the same way. The team didn’t think they could successfully carry out the procedure on my heart and, even if they managed to do it, they thought that — given all my other heart & lung complications — it probably wouldn’t make much difference anyway. So…. a dead-end.
Well, I’m telling you this long story only because of the surprising (to me) and wonderful, joyful outcome — truly old Trickster teaching me his famous side-step! Somehow I feel liberated! No longer wasting energy considering possible remedies, various strategies, what-ifs & hopes, I feel free to just accept, with gratitude, that this is how it is going to go for me & to get on with finding ways to live my life as meaningfully as possible anyway. Every life has its constraints. These are mine. So what?
Acknowledgement & acceptance have led to a wonderful increase in — or reclamation of — my inner Fire. This has helped me finish a project that had been languishing or, at best, proceeding very, very s-l-o-w-l-y for months. Somehow, my conversations with the fibers must have continued to simmer in some hidden inner cauldron. Now the embers rekindled & flamed and the cooking began in earnest. I began to show up more regularly in my work/play room & my conversation with the fibers began to flow again. The completion has (as always) hit some snags & included some tedious bits but, once I started to work again, the impetus — the Fire — stopped faltering & grew.
This past year, I have heard 3 different Slavic stories of the beautiful magical Firebird [not to be confused with the Persian Phoenix who rises from her own ashes]. I told one of the stories in my 9/23/22 post.
These stories have enchanted and evoked some deep resonance within me. Encounters with the Firebird are never simple. Always the finding of a Firebird feather signals the beginning of a difficult adventure that leads one deeper into one’s true self. The adventure usually involves a tsar demanding (with the threat of death) that one capture the Firebird, the delivery of the Firebird to the tsar, and then the freeing the Firebird at last. The Firebird is elusive and wild. Those in power seek to cage it for themselves, but always it must be, will be, freed — just like the Fire within ourselves. And just as the Firebird is wild so, too, in the required series of tasks & adventures, the “hero” requires help from an animal (a talking horse or big gray wolf in the stories I heard). No rule book could provide the necessary map & answers nor could his own human rationality, but Wildness itself showed the way. There is much here for me to learn.
Touched by the Firebird
*****
[On a larger-than-personal level, my shift is a bit like finally having realized that we are, in fact, already in the midst of the disasters (ecological, political, economic, technological, etc.) that we have struggled for so long to prevent, hoping we could somehow stave them off and return to what we’d thought of as “normal.” Our need to act remains, but — recognizing that deep & irreversible changes have already taken place — can we channel more of our emotional energy away from fear or ranting or trying futilely to “stand our ground” when that ground has already become shifting windblown sand dunes? Can we focus our energy not on so much “combat” as on creative responses to the evolving situation? I believe that, in spite of everything, we can uphold our gratitude & reverence for all life and “remember who we are and how we got here, accept the inevitable, honor our grief, and prioritize what is pro-future and soul-nourishing.” We can live “meaningfully, compassionately, and courageously no matter what.” (Quotes from https://postdoom.com/ ) ]
“Sometimes I go about pitying myself. All the time I am being carried on great winds across the sky.”
"All the complicated details
of the attiring and
the disattiring are completed!
A liquid moon
moves gently among
the long branches.
Thus having prepared their buds
against a sure winter
the wise trees
stand sleeping in the cold."
Here in the northern hemisphere, the Winter Solstice will occur on December 21. The word “Solstice” derives from two Latin words meaning “Sun” & “Stopped/Stationary.” The sun — which has been rising & setting further and further south every day [or, in the southern hemisphere, further north] — appears to stop its southward path for three days before reversing its journey to move gradually further north, lengthening our days. There seems to be a pause in the sun’s travels, a stopping, a still point….
Excerpt from BURNT NORTON (No. 1 of ‘Four Quartets’) by T.S. Eliot
At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
In our human world, this is a time of festivities and celebrations in many traditions. It is a time when we gather together to rejoice in the lengthening days & to strengthen relationships as we face the deepening cold. In our U.S. version, however, it has tended to become a time of blatant commercialization & frenzied consumerism. The simpler, beautiful, heart-inspired rituals of the season can too easily become buried, overwhelmed by the rush, drowned out by the noise.
For many reasons, this year I need to honor the Still Point, to step back, to stand quietly — like the wise trees — resting a bit, dreaming roots & paths & ways of being that I have not yet imagined.
I am taking the next two weeks off from Trickster’s Hoard. I’ll be back on January 6th — a new year, a time for new weavings of fibers, stories, and thoughts.
For now, I want to leave you with a poem by Pattiann Rogers that, for me, captures the way a cold winter wind can actually be enlivening, can carry to me the mysteries of the far north [a place that has haunted me all my life] & bring me the dreams of the Old Ones whose wisdom — born of their deep & sacred communion with place — kept them alive through times of ice and hunger.
THE FIRST NORTHER — by Pattiann Rogers
1.
Arriving all evening, turning up the bellies
Of oak leaves, parting the edges
Of cotton hulls and spikelet shafts, it comes,
Having swept first over deserts
Of black tundra, having brushed the flanks
Of the musk ox, descended into the dark
Bubbles of the pipits’ lungs and out again.
It has been slack in the wings
Of the snowy owl, static in the webs
Of a thousand firs, but it comes now
Pressing particles of down
And whale smoke, penetrating windows
With spirits of cedar, frost
From the lemming’s mouth.
2.
Aware of its presence, what will happen to us then
If we choose to leave this room together,
If we walk out among the trees maintaining
Their broken intentions against the wind
And stop beside the wall, feeling the hiss
Of Arctic lichen in our sweaters, the rush
Of frozen grasses in our hands?
You and I, tasting the same air that touched
The eye of the caribou in migration,
Taking into our lungs the same molecules
That reckoned their motion over icy plains
By darkness alone? Surrounded
And utterly possessed, how will you speak
To me then? How will I ever reply?
Sending you love & all the blessings of this season, however it enters your life and your heart — Margery
“Yesterday, simply asking myself a lot of questions. Today trying to answer them. But I think answers don’t apply for very long really. Things are always changing. And I, we, are only human and answers, there aren’t any really. Questions are prompts for considering, and answers , well what if they are just coffee breaks?”
******
Thank you all for your warm, wonderful, and kind contributions this past week. This safe circle is truly a sacred space.
And thank you again, Tina, for your question. It has been said that a good question prompts more questions. That has certainly my experience this last couple weeks. I keep finding more & more questions, shifting perspectives, uncovering important memories…. My mind/spirit does enjoy finding connections that expand & complexify things. [No doubt part of my love of Paradox & Trickster.] So — a simple question requesting one title of one book sent me off down many maze-like rabbit holes at once. (And, of course, it doesn’t help that I am what my husband calls a “bookaholic.”)
I began to think about the myriad of books that have ignited life-changing passions, patterns, ways of being — starting with the books my mother read to me as a young child…… I thought about how, in 1986, a single step into an unexpected bookstore led me to randomly open a book to the poem that gave me the courage to make a difficult but necessary life-changing (shattering) decision.
And then I thought beyond the books to some of the authors with whom I was later fortunate enough to interact for a day or a week or, occasionally, for months.
I thought of folktales & myths which I was told — encountering them with my ears & body, rather than through the written word.
And then, beyond words — to experiences such as time spend beyond language with the land, plants, and animals for months in Kenya or daily in my own backyard. Or Aramaic chants & the Dances of Universal Peace with a Sufi master — sounds & movements that helped me develop and deepen a new relationship with my body, moving from head-centered to heart-centered.
Oh, I could go on & on — but would any of this be helpful in the sense of a “recommendation”? It’s the story of my life, which may or may not be relevant to another in one or many (or no) details.
So — I am incapable of recommending one book or one experience or one teacher (human or other). But what I did realize as I thought about possible answers was that it is the very diversity of books, experiences, and teachers that is the treasure.
I guess if I have any recommendation it is to Cherish your Curiosity.
And another recommendation [I told you I couldn’t do just one!] is to Practice Gratitude. Even though it is often hard or may seem impossible at times, I believe we can learn to give gratitude for whatever we meet along the way — be it book, dance, idea, personal teacher, unexpected bird, Old Woman in the Forest, or Coyote at the Crossroads. I often fail. Still, whatever my response, I believe each encounter does have at its heart (though often disguised & recognized only in hindsight) something I need to learn. The gift can come gently or with the roughness of a rusty blade, but it is something that can help in building a more grounded, kinder, and wiser life. And building such a life from what is at hand is something I will keep trying to do.
THE HOUSE --- by Mary Oliver
It grows larger,
wall after wall,
sliding
on some miraculous arrangement
of panels,
blond and weightless
as balsa, making space
for windows, alcoves,
more rooms, stairways
and passages, all
bathed
in light, with here
and there the green
flower of a tree,
vines, streams
casually
breaking through --
what a change
from the cramped
room at the center
where I began, where I crouched
and was safe, but could hardly
breathe! Day after day
I labor at it;
night after night
I keep going --
I'm clearing new ground,
I'm lugging boards,
I'm measuring,
I'm hanging sheets of glass,
I'm nailing down the hardwoods,
the thresholds --
I'm hinging the doors --
once they are up they will lift
their easy latches, they will open
like wings.
Looking back over the last week or so — no matter what the topic or level of experience & meaning — I see Trickster’s tracks weaving in and out and over my own tracks, sometimes almost obliterating them. I feel flummoxed and frustrated and have wanted to raise a fist & shout “Enough Already!” …..But, of course, it isn’t enough; otherwise he’d skip away to other business. Trickster is summoned into existence by many things — inattention, indecision, distraction, lack of perception & imbalance, and hyper-seriousness, to name just a few. They all seem to describe the sort of funk I’ve been in. Trickster is my eternal teacher, usually advising me to praise paradox more loudly & to dance through this journey more lightly, more joyfully.
*********
– – – – – – And, since writing those words yesterday, since naming Trickster’s message, I’ve found myself turning a corner, choosing a path, no longer stuck in indecision and useless lamentation at the crossroads. I continue to be amazed by the power of words. Preoccupation with words — or with a lack of them — may occasionally cause me to stumble into some deep crevasse … but words can also provide the handholds & footholds I need to climb back out and continue the journey!
Of course, many feelings and experiences are way beyond words & need to be protected from attempts to nail them down & cage them with language. Trickster himself is one of those beings/experiences. This is why poetry, metaphor, story are the linguistic vehicles we use when trying to share the deepest truths. And there are non-linguistic ways as well — image, music, dance….
I love nonverbal communication. Still, words are strong — and, like Story, potentially dangerous. Many indigenous cultures (including the Navajo and the ancient Hebrews) have taken language seriously, recognizing that spoken words create or shift reality. For me, writing, saying, or just thinking a word, metaphor, or story can sometimes be a prayer, both a source of clarification & a kind of commitment. Such commitment is essential before undertaking true work. (My teacher Luisah Teisch teaches that Trickster sits at the Crossroads and, if you lack clear intention & commitment, he is more than happy to lead you astray.)
“Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.”
And so I am, once more, beginning — remembering the words of St. Benedict:
“Always we begin again.”
I have finally begun to put into words for myself a paradox that, especially in light of political struggles here in the U.S. & around the world, has been drifting in a cloud around me like a swarm of gnats, bothering me incessantly. Somewhere earlier on this blog I said (no doubt, many times) that the power of Story is stronger than we’ve imagined and can be harnessed for healing or for harm. But when I read definitions of Story, I hear little that distinguishes these 2 possibilities from each other, little to explain the difference and how to identify & avoid or overcome the latter. Why/how is one story “better” or more “true” than another? After wallowing unhappily in my puzzlement for far too long, I feel like someone who’s been drowning in shallow water and suddenly — simply — puts her feet down on the bottom and rises up above the waves. [This reminds me of the saying — highlighting the stunted growth of trees in the cold of Iceland — that advises: “If you are lost in a forest in Iceland, stand up!”]
Well, more on those thoughts as they develop….
I’ve also been dithering for weeks about the colors for my next weaving. As I’ve pulled out more & more possible (or impossible) fibers and yarns from my stash, my studio came to resemble the messy, unstructured, hodge-podge nest of a mourning dove — though the mourning dove is definitely more minimalist than I am in the collection of building materials. (I once read about a mourning dove who constructed her nest of just five poorly arranged twigs.)
Two days ago, I came across words written by Maeve Brenan to her friend Tillie Olsen:
“You are all your work has. It has nobody else and never had anybody else. If you deny it hands and a voice, it will continue as it is, alive, but speechless and without hands. You know it has eyes and can see you, and you know how hopefully it watches you.”
Hooray for synchronicity & serendipity! This was just the reminder, the wake-up call, I needed. “... and you know how hopefully it watches you.” How much longer will the work be patient? There have been times when, faced with my endless wavering, it finally gave up on me and went off to look for someone else.
So — I finally pulled out some fluffy gray wool & slick hand-dyed mohair and began to spin yarn for the mask’s warp (which will become the hair). Yesterday I plied the two uneven yarns together loosely & washed the skein to set the twist. …… Ha! The power of commitment took hold! When I couldn’t sleep last night, I got up & found the yarn to be dry. I cut the lengths and warped the loom — and returned to bed for a few hours of satisfied & restful sleep. First thing this morning, I began playing with a variety of wefts on the edge of the warp, anxious to see some of the possibilities emerge before unraveling them all & beginning to weave the form in earnest. (Warp colors are not bright pastel than shown — more subdued & subtle.)
Throw Yourself Like Seed ~~ by Miguel de Unamuno
“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.”
************
In the meantime, the other-than-human world continues to offer its multiplicity of gifts. A Yellow-crowned Night-Heron has visited the neighboring pond (drained during a construction project but now refilling) a number of times this week — Such a magical creature!
And Old Oak continues to shed leaves & let go of overt growth so that she can find a deeper life in the darkness of winter — a time when, though the part of her I see above ground will appear dead & dormant, deep underground her roots will continue to grow & to gather water and nutrients — storing them to propel her sudden burst of life in the spring.
I love how her bones are beginning to show: the form, the strength, the scaffolding on which her life and the lives of many other beings depend.
Of what am I currently letting go?
What is the shape of my own scaffolding?
And what, I wonder, will my roots be doing this winter?
In the meantime, I’ll leave us all to ponder the advice of Osho:
"Don't move the way fear makes you move.
Move the way love makes you move.
Move the way joy makes you move."
Sharing Trickster's Hoard 