I wait till twilight to harvest the fragrant lavender because of the bees. I am not afraid of them like some people, although I do have a rather traumatic childhood memory of my arm completely swollen and hot to the touch after I got stung by two of them at once; one on my thumb and one on my forearm. I have come to find that bees will leave you be if you return the favor. But during the sunshine hours, the long, graceful lavender stalks bob up and down as the bumblebees move from one to another. It’s more that I don’t want to disturb them as they gather pollen. Bees being so precious and all.
This lavender is over 13 years old. She used to grow in the small apartment garden I tended. I dug her up and moved her here with me and she was one of the first things to go in the ground. She transplanted well and now she is woody with age and prolific in production. Each year at this time I watch the purple of the blossoms and the golden yellow and fuzzy black of the bees in their drowsy dance together.
But now the air chills with evening and the scant light remains. The lavender is motionless. The bees are gone. So I take my clippers and begin. I grab a handful of the stalks and cut. I breathe in the familiar fragrance that soothes me. I take them to the garden table and arrange them for my drying wrack, cutting the stalks the same length, securing them with a rubber band and hang them with a bit of wire. On the next round, I notice something. Two bumblebees are clinging to their own lavender blooms. They are sleeping. I cut some more. Pulling the loose stalks free causes the ones holding them to move, but the bees don’t. Still they cling, regardless of swinging through the air.
Soon I have six bunches drying and just one more to harvest. I have to cut these one by one so I don’t mistakenly take the bee beds. I have to get closer to see in the growing dark and my face comes nearer to the bees than I would ever allow during daylight. But there is nothing to worry about because they are out. They look so cute. I sing them a lullaby as I snip the few remaining stalks. When I am finished, only those two remain. The bees have found their bed for the night. Their perfumed beds in my garden. I imagine they have passed out from too much nectar, and wisely decided the hive was just too far to fly to this intoxicated. I imagine I can hear them snoring.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Fruit of Wisdom
(Don't know why I wrote this in August but haven't posted it till December but there it is. Maybe I need to EAT some of these fruits of wisdom!)
Apples! This is the ‘on’ year when they are bountiful.
A few weeks ago, I made my becoming famous apple sauce from the fruit of wisdom on my back yard Transparent Apple tree. One of the few trees already here when I moved in. The only plant, it seemed, anyone had ever taken any interest in, pruned and cultivated for a lovely pink umbrella when blossoming, easy for picking when long after flower gives way and grown fruit. I had never heard of Transparent Apples, but my old Betty Crocker Cook Book told me they are best for making sauce and pies. Duly noted. I canned 28 jars when all was said and done. Cinnamon. Light brown sugar. Fresh ginger.
Yesterday, I canned 18 jars of Apple Chutney from the Akane Apple tree in my front yard. This tree was a housewarming gift. Bright pinkish red and celery green. Snow white flesh. Tart. Perfect for chutney. Vinegar, brown sugar, onion, raisins, tumeric.
And this morning, I took the last (except for the one I always leave on the branch in gratitude) of the Akane apples from the other housewarming gift in my back yard. They will become my Apple Jack Liqueur. Vodka, brandy, sugar, star anise, cinnamon stick. Months to infuse. A year or two to mellow after straining. One night of happy, thirsty friends to consume.
What a great sense of accomplishment and respect for nature. No waste. Mine are not the apple trees you see on other lawns, bees low and humming contentedly over rotting fruit. Mine are the carefully watched over; too soon and the only thing ripe is your sour belly, too long and they become fodder for worms and earwigs. Pounce when the time is right, drop all other ‘to do today’ items on your agenda and spend the day with the smell of apples in your nose, the sight of browning skins in your compost, the fan blowing to counteract the heat of all that cooking in Summer.
I find I am never happier than when I am in the garden and there is no end to the soothing my soul receives as I process plants in preparation for gustatory goodness. Harvest time delights me. My clippers at the ready in my back pocket. Out comes the ladder to reach those high apples knowing no matter how carefully you pick them, some will fall. The sweet, sure sound, the thick thud of fruit meeting earth. The weight of the crop in my largest bowls, and then some. The anticipation of all those jars containing preserves. A heartfelt tree hug. A taste of summer relished in winter.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
They Paved Paradise
Recently, I went to work and noticed that a new pipe had been attached to my office building. It snaked around the entry doorway, stopping right above the water spigot that sits just to the left of the lilac bush I planted several years ago. This beautiful variegated lilac, that gives the world such fragrant raspberry and white colored blossoms late Spring, is rooted in a little plot of land that I got permission from my landlord to turn into a garden.
"Hmmm," I thought, "I wonder what that’s for?"
It had been no easy task, turning this dry bit of land that somehow escaped becoming a part of the parking lot it stood beside into the lush garden I am now happy to see each day I arrive. It had offended my eyes to walk past this abandoned place on the way inside, and every single time I did, I imagined what I’d do to it to make it beautiful. Once permission was obtained, I set aside a day and went to work. The hardened soil of this four by twelve foot plot was bereft of nutrients, more rock and clay than anything else. I pounded it to crumble the clay and added compost and weeded and dug up the few spindly St. John’s Wort plants that managed to subsist there. In their stead, I planted perennials: black mondo grass, lavender, a few rows of lilies and a bunch of dahlias, white, red and black tulips for the Maiden, Mother and Crone and tons of daffodils and crocus and grape hyacinth for the Spring. Early Summer each year, I would add the vibrant color of annuals like marigold and sapphire lobelia. Other tenants thanked me for taking the time and doing the work to create such visual beauty.
More recently, I pulled up and parked. And there it was. The pipe was now connected to a huge metal meter box attached to the building wall just above my completely torn up garden! I caught the eye of one of the two strong, young men by the utility truck across the street who came walking over as I asked what was going on. He was very polite. And handsome. And I remember thinking there was a time when he would have had trouble keeping his eyes from resting on my shapely bosom. Instead, he looked me directly in the eye and called me “Ma’am”.
“We’re putting in a new gas line for the building.” There’s been a lot of construction going on in this neighborhood and the preparation for the newest building on the block had clearly begun.
“How long will this process take?” I asked.
“Oh, we’ll be done by the end of the day. After we finish putting the cap on it, we’ll just need to place the guard poles. We should be finished soon. Are you the owner?” he asked.
I wish.
“No, I’m just a tenant. But I've been keeping this garden for close to a decade now and there were about a hundred bulbs planted here for the spring. It’s heartbreaking to see it all torn up like this, especially because I didn’t know anything about it and I would have dug some of them up and saved them for replanting once the work was done!”
He actually bowed his head. “I’m sorry for your garden, Ma’am”, he said.
Later, when I left to go home, three bright yellow, four foot tall eyesores of guard rail accosted me. They now stand at the front edge of what once was my garden, an obvious precautionary measure against cars backing out of their spots. And apparently against gardeners, too, who will find it next to impossible to reach between, or get behind them, to work the land and evoke nature’s beauty.
We are past Imbolc now and signs of Spring are appearing in all their verdant splendor. I am grateful that the lilac stands unharmed and underneath it, sweet green from the un-interfered-with bulbs are emerging. On the other end of the plot, the lavender somehow managed to make it through. But in between, mangled shoots struggle up through new clay beside the stanchions, and the gas cap, and the new rat trap unfortunately placed right on top of where my giant yellow tulip- the one that has given me three babies over the last couple of years-resides. Who knows exactly where the underground gas line actually is and how many bulbs have already met their death.
I can’t actually say they paved paradise and put up a parking lot, but I can say they marred the paradise I created in the parking lot. As the season lengthens, I’ll be watching to see what rises to the surface. After all, Nature is resilient, and hopefully all is not lost. Nature is resilient because she is flexible. She reminds us that nothing endures forever and only the fools among us believe otherwise.
"Hmmm," I thought, "I wonder what that’s for?"
It had been no easy task, turning this dry bit of land that somehow escaped becoming a part of the parking lot it stood beside into the lush garden I am now happy to see each day I arrive. It had offended my eyes to walk past this abandoned place on the way inside, and every single time I did, I imagined what I’d do to it to make it beautiful. Once permission was obtained, I set aside a day and went to work. The hardened soil of this four by twelve foot plot was bereft of nutrients, more rock and clay than anything else. I pounded it to crumble the clay and added compost and weeded and dug up the few spindly St. John’s Wort plants that managed to subsist there. In their stead, I planted perennials: black mondo grass, lavender, a few rows of lilies and a bunch of dahlias, white, red and black tulips for the Maiden, Mother and Crone and tons of daffodils and crocus and grape hyacinth for the Spring. Early Summer each year, I would add the vibrant color of annuals like marigold and sapphire lobelia. Other tenants thanked me for taking the time and doing the work to create such visual beauty.
More recently, I pulled up and parked. And there it was. The pipe was now connected to a huge metal meter box attached to the building wall just above my completely torn up garden! I caught the eye of one of the two strong, young men by the utility truck across the street who came walking over as I asked what was going on. He was very polite. And handsome. And I remember thinking there was a time when he would have had trouble keeping his eyes from resting on my shapely bosom. Instead, he looked me directly in the eye and called me “Ma’am”.
“We’re putting in a new gas line for the building.” There’s been a lot of construction going on in this neighborhood and the preparation for the newest building on the block had clearly begun.
“How long will this process take?” I asked.
“Oh, we’ll be done by the end of the day. After we finish putting the cap on it, we’ll just need to place the guard poles. We should be finished soon. Are you the owner?” he asked.
I wish.
“No, I’m just a tenant. But I've been keeping this garden for close to a decade now and there were about a hundred bulbs planted here for the spring. It’s heartbreaking to see it all torn up like this, especially because I didn’t know anything about it and I would have dug some of them up and saved them for replanting once the work was done!”
He actually bowed his head. “I’m sorry for your garden, Ma’am”, he said.
Later, when I left to go home, three bright yellow, four foot tall eyesores of guard rail accosted me. They now stand at the front edge of what once was my garden, an obvious precautionary measure against cars backing out of their spots. And apparently against gardeners, too, who will find it next to impossible to reach between, or get behind them, to work the land and evoke nature’s beauty.
We are past Imbolc now and signs of Spring are appearing in all their verdant splendor. I am grateful that the lilac stands unharmed and underneath it, sweet green from the un-interfered-with bulbs are emerging. On the other end of the plot, the lavender somehow managed to make it through. But in between, mangled shoots struggle up through new clay beside the stanchions, and the gas cap, and the new rat trap unfortunately placed right on top of where my giant yellow tulip- the one that has given me three babies over the last couple of years-resides. Who knows exactly where the underground gas line actually is and how many bulbs have already met their death.
I can’t actually say they paved paradise and put up a parking lot, but I can say they marred the paradise I created in the parking lot. As the season lengthens, I’ll be watching to see what rises to the surface. After all, Nature is resilient, and hopefully all is not lost. Nature is resilient because she is flexible. She reminds us that nothing endures forever and only the fools among us believe otherwise.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Yule!
It’s 11:36 on this cold Winter Solstice morning. At the Summer Solstice the sun would be reaching His zenith in the sky right about now, reaching the reason we call it ‘high noon.’ But it’s the other Solstice today, the one where the sun barely skips over the tops of the old pine trees in my neighborhood, slanting His light into my window. Should we call it ‘low noon?’
The frost has not melted on the grass still in shadow. Sunlight will not vanquish that shadow today. He is too weak. At twilight, only about five hours from now, He will sink below the horizon into the realm of the unborn, for the longest night of the solar year. And in that lengthy darkness the Cosmic Mother will labor to bring the new born Sun King to birth. She will journey to the edge of death to bring life. And we will gather in circles of loving community to hold vigil, to rekindle our own light, to mark this earthly holy day.
Tomorrow will seem just as short a day, really. But we will know in our hearts that daylight will linger for a few moments longer. We will nurture and protect our rekindled flames as we would any newborn, with tenderness and love and welcome, dreaming of the future, grateful for beginnings.
The frost has not melted on the grass still in shadow. Sunlight will not vanquish that shadow today. He is too weak. At twilight, only about five hours from now, He will sink below the horizon into the realm of the unborn, for the longest night of the solar year. And in that lengthy darkness the Cosmic Mother will labor to bring the new born Sun King to birth. She will journey to the edge of death to bring life. And we will gather in circles of loving community to hold vigil, to rekindle our own light, to mark this earthly holy day.
Tomorrow will seem just as short a day, really. But we will know in our hearts that daylight will linger for a few moments longer. We will nurture and protect our rekindled flames as we would any newborn, with tenderness and love and welcome, dreaming of the future, grateful for beginnings.
Friday, December 2, 2011
A Trip To Faeryland
I spent Thanksgiving with dear friends in sunny California. A welcome respite from soggy Seattle. Friday after the feast, I met their friends about whom I have heard many fabulous stories, and it was good to put names with faces after all this time. It was also good to sit with more artists, even ones I had just met, and feel such an unspoken kinship.
Beyond the dead end of their street, a sign at the entrance of a narrow boardwalk says “Welcome to The Elvin Forest”. Of course, there was a picture of a small, open-handed Elf with pointy ears and shoes. I felt a familiar tug in the center of my palms, a sensation I have come to understand that alerts me to the proximity of a numinous experience. I had been told about the Faery Oaks that lived in this forest, some for at least a hundred years, and I was excited to meet them.
The boardwalk turned this way and that at a slight decline toward the water, and at times it felt as if I was walking through a labyrinth, unable to see where I had been or where I was going next. Which did much to confirm the presence of the Fae for me; who doesn’t know that their realm is one in which time runs differently and disorientation is the lay of the land?
A cool breeze blew through the tunnels the boardwalk created and as I walked, I kept searching the vegetation that grew on either side for oak leaves. Artemesia, some kind of sagebrushy kind of shrub and even poison oak, but not an oak leaf was to be found. I did see some of the most amazing spider webs; dimensional, like gossamer cubes with odd angles shimmering in the sunlight. They made me stop and stare. I wanted to see what kind of spiders had spun these into being but none were to be found. Maybe they only come out at night.
Around one corner, the boardwalk stopped and the banister on either side joined together to form a barricade. And beyond it, there they were. A grove of the Faery oaks! Their tops formed an umbrella above their long and winding, low growing limbs, some of which barely skimmed the soft looking forest floor, beckoning as a comfy sofa. How clever of the Faeries to grow them without leaves mortals would recognize as oak!
I couldn’t help myself! I climbed through what was intended to keep me out, drawn beyond my capacity to resist. The light inside was truly otherworldly. The air was easy to breathe. Spanish moss hung everywhere softening the already curved lines of the flora. I could sense the sentience of the old oaks. I could feel the presence of magick throbbing like my joyous heart. It was all soft green and dove grey above a carpet of faded yellow, sweet smelling leaves.
Then, that weird way of spying fleeting things out of the corner of your eyes began to happen, where no matter how quickly you turn to look, there is nothing to see. The itch in my palms threw currents to my shoulder blades, right where my wings used to be. I knew I was among Them. I felt I had come home. I didn’t need to close my eyes to pray to the Fae. I sat perfectly still, feeling tiny and grand, and softening my gaze, prayed with my smile. Thanksgiving, indeed.
My friends back on the boardwalk wanted to move on. Tearing myself out of the grove felt physically painful. Achy like. With a pang of sorrow. And a side of dizzy.
The triumphant destination of the boardwalk was a vista of the estuary that snakes through the mud flats toward Morro Bay. Where the late afternoon sun sparkles on the mirror of the water. Where hawks circle silently, the edges of their wings like the graceful hands of ballerinas. Where, off in the distance, long legged birds peck at the damp and delicious earth.
But I knew the triumphant vista was one that can’t be seen with our determinate eyes. It was back in a thunderously silent grove, thick with magick, and luminous from an invisible moon.
Beyond the dead end of their street, a sign at the entrance of a narrow boardwalk says “Welcome to The Elvin Forest”. Of course, there was a picture of a small, open-handed Elf with pointy ears and shoes. I felt a familiar tug in the center of my palms, a sensation I have come to understand that alerts me to the proximity of a numinous experience. I had been told about the Faery Oaks that lived in this forest, some for at least a hundred years, and I was excited to meet them.
The boardwalk turned this way and that at a slight decline toward the water, and at times it felt as if I was walking through a labyrinth, unable to see where I had been or where I was going next. Which did much to confirm the presence of the Fae for me; who doesn’t know that their realm is one in which time runs differently and disorientation is the lay of the land?
A cool breeze blew through the tunnels the boardwalk created and as I walked, I kept searching the vegetation that grew on either side for oak leaves. Artemesia, some kind of sagebrushy kind of shrub and even poison oak, but not an oak leaf was to be found. I did see some of the most amazing spider webs; dimensional, like gossamer cubes with odd angles shimmering in the sunlight. They made me stop and stare. I wanted to see what kind of spiders had spun these into being but none were to be found. Maybe they only come out at night.
Around one corner, the boardwalk stopped and the banister on either side joined together to form a barricade. And beyond it, there they were. A grove of the Faery oaks! Their tops formed an umbrella above their long and winding, low growing limbs, some of which barely skimmed the soft looking forest floor, beckoning as a comfy sofa. How clever of the Faeries to grow them without leaves mortals would recognize as oak!
I couldn’t help myself! I climbed through what was intended to keep me out, drawn beyond my capacity to resist. The light inside was truly otherworldly. The air was easy to breathe. Spanish moss hung everywhere softening the already curved lines of the flora. I could sense the sentience of the old oaks. I could feel the presence of magick throbbing like my joyous heart. It was all soft green and dove grey above a carpet of faded yellow, sweet smelling leaves.
Then, that weird way of spying fleeting things out of the corner of your eyes began to happen, where no matter how quickly you turn to look, there is nothing to see. The itch in my palms threw currents to my shoulder blades, right where my wings used to be. I knew I was among Them. I felt I had come home. I didn’t need to close my eyes to pray to the Fae. I sat perfectly still, feeling tiny and grand, and softening my gaze, prayed with my smile. Thanksgiving, indeed.
My friends back on the boardwalk wanted to move on. Tearing myself out of the grove felt physically painful. Achy like. With a pang of sorrow. And a side of dizzy.
The triumphant destination of the boardwalk was a vista of the estuary that snakes through the mud flats toward Morro Bay. Where the late afternoon sun sparkles on the mirror of the water. Where hawks circle silently, the edges of their wings like the graceful hands of ballerinas. Where, off in the distance, long legged birds peck at the damp and delicious earth.
But I knew the triumphant vista was one that can’t be seen with our determinate eyes. It was back in a thunderously silent grove, thick with magick, and luminous from an invisible moon.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
This Little Light of Mine
Winter is in. If I didn’t know it by the dropping temperatures and holiday trappings everywhere, I was sure of it when I checked email the other day and found this:
What Holiday Is That?
T’was the month before Christmas, when all through our land,
Not a Christian was praying nor taking a stand.
See the PC Police had taken away
The reason for Christmas - no one could say.
The children were told by their schools not to sing
About Shepherds and Wise Men and Angels and things.
It might hurt people's feelings, the teachers would say
December 25th is just a ' Holiday'.
Yet the shoppers were ready with cash, checks and credit
Pushing folks down to the floor just to get it!
CDs from Madonna, an X BOX, an I-Pod
Something was changing, something quite odd!
Retailers promoted Ramadan and Kwanzaa
In hopes to sell books by Franken & Fonda.
As Targets were hanging their trees upside down
At Lowe's the word Christmas - was no where to be found.
At K-Mart and Staples and Penny's and Sears
You won't hear the word Christmas; it won't touch your ears.
Inclusive, sensitive, Di-ver-si-ty
Are words that were used to intimidate me.
Now Daschle, Now Darden, Now Sharpton, Wolf Blitzen
On Boxer, on Rather, on Kerry, on Clinton!
At the top of the Senate, there arose such a clatter
To eliminate Jesus, in all public matter.
And we spoke not a word, as they took away our faith
Forbidden to speak of salvation and grace
The true Gift of Christmas was exchanged and discarded
The reason for the season, stopped before it started.
So as you celebrate 'Winter Break' under your 'Dream Tree'
Sipping your Starbucks, listen to me.
Choose your words carefully, choose what you say
Shout MERRY CHRISTMAS, not Happy Holiday!
Please, all Christians join together and wish everyone you meet
MERRY CHRISTMAS
Christ is The Reason' for the Christ-mas Season!
Wow.
I am not a Christian, so the call to action at the end of this poorly written rhyme is not intended for me. But in addition to making the mental correction that Mother Nature is the reason for the season, it made me wonder. Is our faith really taken away if we don’t hear it spoken about or exalted in public? Is our spirit so uneasy that it must trump all others in order to feel secure? I thought faith resides in our hearts and souls. And why does being inclusive and sensitive and honoring diversity intimidating?
Lest we forget, “Yule” means Wheel, and refers to the Wheel of the Year, a Pagan model for the passing of time. That tree hanging upside down at Target derives from an old Pagan practice of associative magick: the evergreen brought into the home at midwinter is a metaphor for life surviving through the fallow season. Amulets for protection to ward off illness and hunger were hung on this tree, much later becoming Christmas ornaments. The trees' branches would be used to keep the home fires burning through the long, dark coldness, its trunk becoming the Yule Log to start next year's midwinter fire. Why, even the wreath on the door was a representation of the Wheel of the Year, the portal through which all life enters into the world. In my faith, the story goes that at the Solstice, the Great Cosmic Mother gives birth to the sun. We can easily see how that story morphed into Mother Mary giving birth to Her son.
But I don’t expect that school children everywhere, no matter what faith they were raised in, to sing about it. And it doesn’t take one tiny bit away from my faith that everyone doesn’t walk the same path as I do. I love that the Solstice and Christmas and Hanukah and Kwanzaa are all celebrated close to one another in time (by the way, Ramadan is observed in the Summer!) because at the foundation of all of them is the celebration of the returning light!
Perhaps allowing this little light of mine to shine is the best way to observe Christmas. Correct me if I am wrong, but wasn’t it Jesus who said love thy enemies as thyself?
What Holiday Is That?
T’was the month before Christmas, when all through our land,
Not a Christian was praying nor taking a stand.
See the PC Police had taken away
The reason for Christmas - no one could say.
The children were told by their schools not to sing
About Shepherds and Wise Men and Angels and things.
It might hurt people's feelings, the teachers would say
December 25th is just a ' Holiday'.
Yet the shoppers were ready with cash, checks and credit
Pushing folks down to the floor just to get it!
CDs from Madonna, an X BOX, an I-Pod
Something was changing, something quite odd!
Retailers promoted Ramadan and Kwanzaa
In hopes to sell books by Franken & Fonda.
As Targets were hanging their trees upside down
At Lowe's the word Christmas - was no where to be found.
At K-Mart and Staples and Penny's and Sears
You won't hear the word Christmas; it won't touch your ears.
Inclusive, sensitive, Di-ver-si-ty
Are words that were used to intimidate me.
Now Daschle, Now Darden, Now Sharpton, Wolf Blitzen
On Boxer, on Rather, on Kerry, on Clinton!
At the top of the Senate, there arose such a clatter
To eliminate Jesus, in all public matter.
And we spoke not a word, as they took away our faith
Forbidden to speak of salvation and grace
The true Gift of Christmas was exchanged and discarded
The reason for the season, stopped before it started.
So as you celebrate 'Winter Break' under your 'Dream Tree'
Sipping your Starbucks, listen to me.
Choose your words carefully, choose what you say
Shout MERRY CHRISTMAS, not Happy Holiday!
Please, all Christians join together and wish everyone you meet
MERRY CHRISTMAS
Christ is The Reason' for the Christ-mas Season!
Wow.
I am not a Christian, so the call to action at the end of this poorly written rhyme is not intended for me. But in addition to making the mental correction that Mother Nature is the reason for the season, it made me wonder. Is our faith really taken away if we don’t hear it spoken about or exalted in public? Is our spirit so uneasy that it must trump all others in order to feel secure? I thought faith resides in our hearts and souls. And why does being inclusive and sensitive and honoring diversity intimidating?
Lest we forget, “Yule” means Wheel, and refers to the Wheel of the Year, a Pagan model for the passing of time. That tree hanging upside down at Target derives from an old Pagan practice of associative magick: the evergreen brought into the home at midwinter is a metaphor for life surviving through the fallow season. Amulets for protection to ward off illness and hunger were hung on this tree, much later becoming Christmas ornaments. The trees' branches would be used to keep the home fires burning through the long, dark coldness, its trunk becoming the Yule Log to start next year's midwinter fire. Why, even the wreath on the door was a representation of the Wheel of the Year, the portal through which all life enters into the world. In my faith, the story goes that at the Solstice, the Great Cosmic Mother gives birth to the sun. We can easily see how that story morphed into Mother Mary giving birth to Her son.
But I don’t expect that school children everywhere, no matter what faith they were raised in, to sing about it. And it doesn’t take one tiny bit away from my faith that everyone doesn’t walk the same path as I do. I love that the Solstice and Christmas and Hanukah and Kwanzaa are all celebrated close to one another in time (by the way, Ramadan is observed in the Summer!) because at the foundation of all of them is the celebration of the returning light!
Perhaps allowing this little light of mine to shine is the best way to observe Christmas. Correct me if I am wrong, but wasn’t it Jesus who said love thy enemies as thyself?
Sunday, November 6, 2011
A Silent Supper
For years I have included the tradition of the Silent Supper in my teachings about Samhain. The idea is to partake of a feast of old family recipes, without talking, as a way to honor your Beloved Dead. The closest I have ever come to participating in this tradition is to ask my congregation to hold a few moments of silence at the end of the October service, offering prayers in their hearts instead of making them verbally. But that is a far cry from the true silent supper I experienced on Samhain this year.
The day dawned with perfect weather for Samhain; cool, crisp and most of all and especially here in the northwest, dry! My circle had planned to partake of a true Silent Supper as part of our ritual and I spent the day preparing for it, cleaning the house and setting the table with all my Witch Ware and linens. Each of us were to bring some family favorite to contribute to the meal. I made my first ever 'Grandma Fay Salad'.
Grandma Fay's salad has been a staple in my family for as long as I can remember. It appears at just about every family gathering in the big silver bowl, and in all these years I had never made one myself. I think that is because once I grew up and went out on my own, I looked down my nose at iceberg lettuce as something deplorable and Miracle Whip never entered my fridge. Funny how my judgments never stopped me from eating it whenever someone else made it! Well, it's just so damned tasty.
Nothing all that special really. A basic garden salad complete with tomato, cucumber, radish, celery, red bell pepper, onion. But it must be iceberg lettuce. Romain just won't do. Iceberg! Hard boiled eggs. Miracle Whip, (not plain mayonnaise), kosher salt and a little bit of garlic powder. Unusual ingredient for a salad but there it is.
I called my mother for a review and was delighted with her specific pointers about her Mother-in-law's dish. Push the eggs through the grater we use for potatoes when we make latkes, use a little Miracle Whip at a time (you can always add more but too much will ruin it), same with the kosher salt, and "use your hands. Get in there and mix it up!" Use my hands? Oh! Ok.
When I asked her if she knew where the original recipe came from and when, I thought for sure she would tell me that Grandma Fay found it in a cookbook in the 1960's or something. But although my mother wasn't sure where the recipe originated, she said Grandma Fay was already serving it when my father took her home to meet his family in the 40's! I didn't know that Miracle Whip was around that long!
My guests arrived and we did a simple ceremony of creating sacred space, naming our Beloved Dead, explaining the dish we each brought and why, and then a bell was rung to signal the beginning of holding ritual silence. Next, we bundled up and journeyed outside my back door to the magick of my garden, where my big cast iron cauldron had been set up, ready to go. Earlier the week before, I had created the Samhain 'portal' using cast iron torches wrapped with mullein stalks and poppy heads in the northwest of the circle. Now, we each ate a few pomegranate seeds there before walking through to the realm of our Ancestors.
The night was clear and cold, the stars sharp, Diana's bow low and bright in the sky. Once the fire was lit, we threw handful after handful of dried lavendar, rosemary, and sage into the cauldron, watching the smoke take our prayers of love to our Beloved Dead. When all the herbs were burned, we stood close to warm ourselves, holding hands, watching the embers for a while. Keeping the silence, we walked back through the gate and inside the house to fill our plates and take our seats. I made an extra plate with a bit of all the dishes and placed it in the center of the table for our Ancestors. When everyone was served, we began our silent supper.
I have eaten this way before; not talking or distracted by a book or the TV, mindful of each bite, conscious of my gratitude. But this was different. Each morsel was acutely delicious; the carrots sweet and soft, the chicken and pork tender and flavorful, the mashed potatoes creamy and comforting. Eyes met and smiled across plates. The clink of silverware, music. I felt an unexpected bubble of laughter rise and then fall in me and somehow I knew it was the delight of those on the other side.
I took a forkful of the salad. It was Grandma Fay's all right! Needed a bit more salt but that was easily remedied. I thought of her eyes that always looked at me with love. I touched her earrings in my lobes, the necklace she gave me on my thirteenth birthday around my neck. I will always miss her honey voice and unconditional love. But sitting there in silence at the table, she felt so close I just couldn't be sad.
When all the plates were empty and all the forks laid down, I rang the bell once more and as agreed, we took a deep breath together and let out a collective sigh to bring our voices back from the thick deep. We closed the sacred space and then consumed coffee and dessert amid great conversation and lovely laughter.
This beautiful tradition is not one to be missed! How magnificent to sit at a table with those you love and trust, nourishing yourself on family favorites, not having to utter a word to feel a deep and intimate connection, even across the mystery to those who have gone before us.
The day dawned with perfect weather for Samhain; cool, crisp and most of all and especially here in the northwest, dry! My circle had planned to partake of a true Silent Supper as part of our ritual and I spent the day preparing for it, cleaning the house and setting the table with all my Witch Ware and linens. Each of us were to bring some family favorite to contribute to the meal. I made my first ever 'Grandma Fay Salad'.
Grandma Fay's salad has been a staple in my family for as long as I can remember. It appears at just about every family gathering in the big silver bowl, and in all these years I had never made one myself. I think that is because once I grew up and went out on my own, I looked down my nose at iceberg lettuce as something deplorable and Miracle Whip never entered my fridge. Funny how my judgments never stopped me from eating it whenever someone else made it! Well, it's just so damned tasty.
Nothing all that special really. A basic garden salad complete with tomato, cucumber, radish, celery, red bell pepper, onion. But it must be iceberg lettuce. Romain just won't do. Iceberg! Hard boiled eggs. Miracle Whip, (not plain mayonnaise), kosher salt and a little bit of garlic powder. Unusual ingredient for a salad but there it is.
I called my mother for a review and was delighted with her specific pointers about her Mother-in-law's dish. Push the eggs through the grater we use for potatoes when we make latkes, use a little Miracle Whip at a time (you can always add more but too much will ruin it), same with the kosher salt, and "use your hands. Get in there and mix it up!" Use my hands? Oh! Ok.
When I asked her if she knew where the original recipe came from and when, I thought for sure she would tell me that Grandma Fay found it in a cookbook in the 1960's or something. But although my mother wasn't sure where the recipe originated, she said Grandma Fay was already serving it when my father took her home to meet his family in the 40's! I didn't know that Miracle Whip was around that long!
My guests arrived and we did a simple ceremony of creating sacred space, naming our Beloved Dead, explaining the dish we each brought and why, and then a bell was rung to signal the beginning of holding ritual silence. Next, we bundled up and journeyed outside my back door to the magick of my garden, where my big cast iron cauldron had been set up, ready to go. Earlier the week before, I had created the Samhain 'portal' using cast iron torches wrapped with mullein stalks and poppy heads in the northwest of the circle. Now, we each ate a few pomegranate seeds there before walking through to the realm of our Ancestors.
The night was clear and cold, the stars sharp, Diana's bow low and bright in the sky. Once the fire was lit, we threw handful after handful of dried lavendar, rosemary, and sage into the cauldron, watching the smoke take our prayers of love to our Beloved Dead. When all the herbs were burned, we stood close to warm ourselves, holding hands, watching the embers for a while. Keeping the silence, we walked back through the gate and inside the house to fill our plates and take our seats. I made an extra plate with a bit of all the dishes and placed it in the center of the table for our Ancestors. When everyone was served, we began our silent supper.
I have eaten this way before; not talking or distracted by a book or the TV, mindful of each bite, conscious of my gratitude. But this was different. Each morsel was acutely delicious; the carrots sweet and soft, the chicken and pork tender and flavorful, the mashed potatoes creamy and comforting. Eyes met and smiled across plates. The clink of silverware, music. I felt an unexpected bubble of laughter rise and then fall in me and somehow I knew it was the delight of those on the other side.
I took a forkful of the salad. It was Grandma Fay's all right! Needed a bit more salt but that was easily remedied. I thought of her eyes that always looked at me with love. I touched her earrings in my lobes, the necklace she gave me on my thirteenth birthday around my neck. I will always miss her honey voice and unconditional love. But sitting there in silence at the table, she felt so close I just couldn't be sad.
When all the plates were empty and all the forks laid down, I rang the bell once more and as agreed, we took a deep breath together and let out a collective sigh to bring our voices back from the thick deep. We closed the sacred space and then consumed coffee and dessert amid great conversation and lovely laughter.
This beautiful tradition is not one to be missed! How magnificent to sit at a table with those you love and trust, nourishing yourself on family favorites, not having to utter a word to feel a deep and intimate connection, even across the mystery to those who have gone before us.
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