Imbolc

Between St. Brigid’s Day, Imbolc, Candlemas, GroundHog Day and St. Blaise’s Feast Day this week, there’s a whole lotta light and candle magic going on. I celebrate the Solstices, Equinoxes and cross-quarter days in some small way, as I find this to be a sort of anchor for the rhythm of my days and the flow of the seasons. They can certainly be something to look forward to, much like the phases of the moon for me. There is endless information available over how different cultures celebrate some of these festivals or feast days, but I prefer to do my own abbreviated versions of various rituals associated with my own Celtic heritage — and as we are now halfway through the dark season and moving into the light, naturally I have candles lit. Keeping it simple means I will actually celebrate with some intention. For St. Brigid’s Day and Imbolc, I have my herbal smoke blend with violet leaf, and a supper of salmon, with my riff on Colcannon (basically a mash of potato and cabbage) of kale and potato — the salmon symbolizes the return of Springtime for me, violets are early harbingers of the warmer days ahead, and the potato is a reminder of the importance of the dark of the underground, as well as the light from above for growth and renewal. Stuff like this is just one of the things that floats my boat, what floats yours?

January Break


The truth of the matter is…I haven’t really missed Instagram this past month. Another truth? I didn’t get a whole heck of a lot of writing or work on my website done either. That was my intention — sort of anyway. BUT…I took lots of walks, did lots of baking, tried a new meditation app, did some hand sewing and knitting, read and reread good books, rediscovered other places to sit and look out the windows of our home, watched snow fall, heard gale winds howl, and rainstorms dance, and listened to classical music. The most radical act of all though was sitting and doing absolutely nothing else but put my arm around my furry beast, Oonagh, and allow myself to rest in that space and enjoy the sheer luxury of…doing nothing. The break has served me well. It’s an art you know. Tricia Hersey, of @thenapministry is an artist who speaks to this art in a language I understand. Perhaps she speaks it for you, too. 

History and Mysteries

I love a good historical mystery, particularly those that are set at the turn of the 20th century. I learn a lot from a well-researched novel. My favorite decades are the 1920’s and 30’s, basically the years between the two world wars. It’s uncanny, if you’re a history buff like I am, how you can follow the social, political, economic and scientific events of those years in the last century, and see how they parallel similar events happening now in this one. People really were clueless, dancing and spending their merry way into two world wars. It’s interesting how journalists like Dorothy Thompson tried to sound the alarm, and yet no one paid attention until it was too late. But maybe that was the plan all along?

Anchors, mothers, and matter

 

We earthlings need an anchor (our bodies) to contain the infinite energetic matter of our spirits. My body and direct experience help me hold it together. With virtual experience I become one of the ghosts in a machine. I don’t want to live in a machine. I will love being a ghost when it is my actual time and my spirit is freed from a material (mater, mother, matter) vessel, but I don’t want to be swapping out one vessel (my body) for another (a machine).

Love Languages

There are many love languages; I believe food is one of them, and I have probably mentioned this sentiment before. From the simplest to the most complex, scratch cooking takes time; giving and sharing our precious time here is another aspect of love.
I’ve discovered many recipes from assorted cookbooks that I’ve adopted as my favorites, and many recipes I love that people I’ve loved have shared with me. I in turn share the cookies, or the bread, or the carrot cake, or the granola I’ve made from those recipes with others. I’ll share the recipe if they ask, and when they make it for themselves, they’ll always say to me “but it wasn’t as good as yours.” That’s because it didn’t have my own special love ingredient. It had theirs, and they gotta be able to recognize it. And all this sharing, it does keep the love going round and round.

Bone Black

Just returned from an evening walk, and looking forward to finishing bell hooks “Bone Black,” Memories of Girlhood. It’s my second reading, and while I usually don’t like rereading books, this one is lyrical and dreamlike, perceptive and raw, and shares a spirited girl’s journey to becoming a writer.

Journaling and Artists’ Ways

Looking forward to working more with my journal today. I used to do morning pages religiously, as well as other practices that I learned about while doing Julia Cameron’s workbook, The Artist’s Way, years ago. An artist friend I met through dance strongly encouraged me to work with it and when I finally got around to it, it was a joy to work with. It kept me grounded on a daily and weekly basis. I’ve often thought of revisiting it, possibly with a small group, but wondering if I even have the attention span for it anymore. Perhaps it’s a good time to find out.

Oonagh, My Canine Shadow

I’ve had to adjust my morning routine somewhat — rather difficult as my morning rituals help set the tone for my day. Lately my personal space has felt a bit crowded — that heavy breathing during a phone call? Not me. Strange garbled text you received? Again, not me. Hoping to come up for air soon.

Magic and the Memories of a Doorknob

I aspire to live in a land of magic and wonder, and occasionally I realize that I already do. It’s just sometimes I forget. One of the reasons I love vintage pieces is for the stories they hold, and I’ve always loved a good story. The excerpts below from Mary Ruehle’s book of poems, “Dunce,” speak to this. They are from the poem “Inglenook.”
“I live in the museum of everyday life,… Open daily, the doorknobs are covered with curated fingerprints and pass on the latest news.”

Bone Deep

“The strange antlered language of phantoms” (quote from Mary Ruefle’s book of prose, “My Private Property”) and flickering shadows playing in the corners of your simple mind…the one that’s in tune with your body and what your body knows from centuries of carrying this knowledge in the DNA that flows from ancestors through their descendants. It’s the more powerful of our two minds, for it is pure instinct and sensual knowing before language steps in to confuse an eternal and universal consciousness.