Morning Dream

In the silence, just before first light comes 

Through the moving curtain, touched by early air,

I dream a waking dream.

I am a girl, young again, standing 

Thigh deep in water, facing the sunrise.

A long shirt of thin white cloth, 

Covers me loosely.

I close my eyes and know water as it is.

Fish nibble my toes and brush my legs.

Smiling, I say words in a strange language. 

Sensing day break, through my eyelids,  

I look out to the brightening trees

On the mountain, and the birds come.

The rosy sky is filled with layers of singing.

Surrounded by feathers, wings encircle me.

I feel the energy of flight in my body.

Turning, I walk, each footstep makes a path.

A few large stones call me to sit among them.

I feel the warmth of morning against my legs,

A  gentle reminder of the heat to come. 

First listening to whispers, then laughter, 

The earth shares poems and tells stories

Without words, but her voice is clear.

I understand. I nod. I pray.

Blessings are given to an old woman who dreams.

Late September Fog

Esplendora coming to the barn

You may need to remember the curve of road

When driving over the mountain at night, 

As all is lost in the low beam of searching headlights.

Sometimes, fog is what is left over from an Indian summer shower,

Holding fast to desire for moisture on a warm afternoon.

I know the science of cooling air, longer nights, humidity, and dew point.

But seeing from high above, the thick sea of fog with its island hills

Down below in these misty Appalachian valleys, there is a conjuring

Of ancestral spells, something ancient, just beyond remembering.

I hear a distant tune, a song in a minor key.

Early morning, I find the sun still behind the slowly lifting veil,

A muted white circle, existing in that certain stillness of “fog quiet”.

Even birdsong is suspended within it.

Walking under the shadowless forest canopy, 

Leaves, just beginning to turn, release a steady, muffled drip,

Mosses and ferns by the creek, so green, 

Shine against the surrounding rock and grey air.

October shows off, and distracted by the dazzle

We don’t mourn the coming loss of color against the sky.

But today, I whistle and watch the horses appear

Out of a silvery shroud, nickering, ready for grain.

Feeling the familiar bittersweetness of Autumn as they join me,  

Rubbing their soft, furry coats, heavier now, 

I take a long deep breath and exhale slowly.

Two tears meet the smile below them.

I am grateful for the slow revelation nature offers —  

The ephemeral curtain, this seasonal pause between what was, 

And what is to come. A secret shared, a memory recalled.

A longing lived, once again.

The Honesty of Animals

Yolandi and Maria

In the golden sunlight of September I sit, doing one of the things I most enjoy in life...watching animals. Whether it be farm animals, pets, or wildlife, whether they be furred, feathered, amphibious or reptilian, I find them fascinating. They surely teach me how to “see” and to have deep patience. Back in the day, had I not been so afeared of science, and pursued it, I think I would have been a damn good field biologist.

Most evenings you’ll find me watching my flock of chickens ages 3 mos to 5 yrs. Even then, there’s the interplay of cats and dogs, herds of deer in the pasture. No matter who I’m watching, it is about their relationship with others, with the environment, and their sense of self. Yes, their sense of self. That’s pretty much the way it is in the human world too, except for the ego part. That instinctual wisdom really is light years beyond ego, (in my humble opinion). Animals bring me peace. The human world not nearly so much. With the animals in my care it is about my relationship with them, but now that I think about it, it’s also about the deer who know me, my routine of chores, and our relationship, the birds that know I fill the feeders, talk to them, and who trust me after all these years.

Mazzy playing on a walk w/ me and the dogs

One thing I love so much about animals is their complete lack of self consciousness. They honestly represent themselves, with no care about anything but direct encounter, sustaining themselves, and finding a place of comfort in their flock, herd, pack. Sometimes it may seem brutal or unfair, but the order of things comes first. Once the order is found, peace exists. I shy away from anthropomorphizing animal behavior, but sometimes what I see, over time, and occasionally in an instant, is out of what we two leggeds consider “the norm”, creating new awareness about creatures and what is even possibile. Animals are surprising, too.

There is so much learned on any given day about need, tolerance, intelligence, resourcefulness, and honesty from a simple flock of chickens, trio of barn cats, herd of horses or deer, gang of turkeys, family dog pack, murder of crows. My life is blessed by observations and interactions. Like many indigenous peoples, that looked to animals for lessons and stories, I too, find truth in animals.

Back deck w/ my friends

Chickens as Teachers

Gathering by the fire pit

I do not imagine most folks would consider a chicken to be a spirit animal. I know they are not in my medicine card deck. They are certainly not fierce and powerful, like the wolf, bear, or lion, fun loving like the otter, or swift like the deer. We honor the stealth of the fox, the mystery of the owl, the work ethic of the beaver. Much has been written about our connection to other mammalian domesticated animals. Riders experience the freedom given by the beautiful horse. There is the fine example of loyalty, so true of the dog, the independence of the cat. But what about chickens? People that keep them adore them. Having done so myself for the last ten years, I feel I have lived with them enough to see their unique qualities, from which humans can learn. Native Americans observed the animals with whom they came in contact, and revered them as teachers. In an older blog piece I wrote about wild birds and my observation, love, and admiration for the winged ones. But my hens and roosters, though feathered, have a different energy altogether.

Beneath the backyard bird feeders

In our language chickens are much maligned birds. It is an insult to be called “chicken”, after all, or to have “chicken legs”. Yet, I wish I had the natural abilities of my flock. Their sensory awareness puts ours to shame. They are a prey animal, so they are tuned to shifts in any sounds, sights, or movement. The rooster alerts the hens, if a shadow passes overhead and all head for the bush. They watch out for one another, and form bonded relationships within the flock. There are extroverted hens and introverted ones, social gals and outliers, but they all find their way back into the henhouse to roost together at chicken dark. They like to go on small group adventures and have their special hangouts, sometimes to soak up the sun with their solar panel wings, and sometimes to stay out of the weather or heat. The other day I saw little Delores jump on the BIG teenage rooster, George, when he waylaid her best friend (my other older hen), and chased him off. I had NEVER seen a hen teach a roo such a lesson. It felt like she was saying “Respect your elders, surprise attack breeding doesn’t fly here.”

Arrival of new pullets at the chicken house

Chickens are easy, require little space or work to thrive, especially if they can free range and forage. Yet they give a gift, regularly…the perfect protein of an egg. And a farm egg, well, there is nothing like it in any store. They eat garden pests and appreciate kitchen scraps. They spread the manure in your pasture fields, naturally. I find their feather patterns beautiful, and just enjoy watching them move around the farm throughout the day. Perhaps because I invest time developing a relationship with them, they often follow me around. Gardening might give them rewards of a grub or worm, but many mornings, they just come sit with me and preen while I have my porch swing coffee, or evenings, my back deck beer or glass of wine. They will lay quietly at my feet, or perch on the back of a bench. The current tame Orpington rooster, Buddy Roe, might even come sit in my lap, looking for a treat. My small egg business is called “Peace Love Chickens”, and I have the same primitive sign I painted over the hen house door years ago. It may not be very original, but says in a few words all that I feel about being a chicken keeper.

Over the years I have had several favorites in the flock. Adelaide was one such bird. She taught me about love and trust. A special needs pullet, having come to me missing a few toes and sadly, a malformed beak, so it was hard for her to eat. We trimmed it regularly, and gave her special attention. As she grew up, she found ways to compensate for her physical challenges. Very comfortable with the family pets, Adelaide could be found hanging out somewhere with the dogs or cats, but always ran to us when we came around the corner. I remember being amazed and surprised by her first egg, a beautiful olive green. She was my first ever green egg layer. Adelaide liked water, and sometimes stepped into the puppy pool to cool off, and was such a sweet kind spirit wherever she went. Now there is Spot, one of the four Buckeye hens, always underfoot, and very talkative. The breed is so smart, and brave, yes brave, and will take on a wood rat or a snake, and devour it. They are omnivores, after all and you can see the reptile in them, from their scaly legs to their “giving nothing away” eye. If chickens were five feet tall, they would be high up on the predator list.

Adelaide cooling her feet

Eleanor

But I digress. My enthusiasm for chickens in general, and my affection for those that have been here on Red Horse Flats over the last decade is not the real purpose of this writing. I am not a chicken whisperer. I am a chicken observer, and witness to their “ways”. Remember all those graphics on tee shirts, cards, and totes, with “Advice from…”  just about everything . I loved them. Someone understood, what a butterfly, a river, a tree, an eagle can teach us. Maybe there is one for chicken folks, too, though I have not seen it. So I am here to share in a few words what might be of universal value from my own noticings. So here goes:

What Chickens Teach Us

Start the day early, no matter the weather.

Come together with your flock/family every evening, regardless of what may have happened during the day.

Be in tune with all your senses.

Pay attention to the small things all around you, as there are treasures to be found, sometimes in unlikely places.

Take care of the young. A loving Mother sustains the world.

Beauty comes in all colors, sizes, and types. At the end of the day we are all the same.

We all have a gift to offer that comes from us, and is unique to us.

Let others know when you have created something special.

Inform those around you where the good stuff can be found.

Notice changes around and adapt as needed.

There is a time for confrontation, and making noise, and there is a time to be quiet and still.

Maybe chickens are not everyone’s cup of tea. A floggy rooster IS problematic. But my Queendom is all that more peaceable because of the feathered friends with whom I share it. There is great reciprocity with farm animals, no more so than with chickens. I take care of them, and they feed me.  Providing me laughter and meaningful interspecies interaction with their funny individual personalities is just one more thing to appreciate. My belief is chickens are teachers, no less than any other animal. They are due respect and kindness. I would proudly wear a tee shirt that says “Chickens Are My Spirit Animal.” 

Conversation w/ the flock

Winter time

Past Summer Solstice

One lingering look up

At the cool green geometry

Of poplar and locust

Spiraling to fill space in the sky,

I am reminded of times before

When I felt at home

within the graceful line and angle

Of white oak and maple together,

Happy among the trees.

Now hot sun, past solstice slant

Cuts sharp through the woods

Emphasizing the importance

Of light on leaf and limb.

I dreamed of days like this

When trunks seemed sharp sticks

Rising dark into winter air,

And I shivered at the clatter

Of spiny fingers against the window.

But once again the sounds and smells of summer

Swallow me whole.

Butternut and handsome beech grow beside me,

And together we are alive in the prime of this perfect season.

Water Wish

Tilly swimming in a nearby pond

All winter we rehearsed it in our minds,

And like fish to water we long to enter the summer element.

Now we dream of cool still water within the pond’s calm center.

We see the surface shimmer that slows down time.

The whole sun, butter like, melts down on us

With its certain summer light, hanging heavy,

Poised to watch our water wish come true.

Beneath the glare, welcoming currents

Wait to revive us, with their miracle tonic.

This iridescent elixer, friend to every skimming bug,

Flick tailed fish and bird, opens wide

Cleansing us with its life giving medicine.

Water Creatures

Nearby pond

We are creatures of the water.

Our summer survival sends us to it.

You will find us where salt air moves through pine and palmetto.

Amidst the splash and churn, we ride the shoulders of the waves.

You will find us among blackberry vines on banks of secret ponds.

Like the Great Blue, we are lulled to listen and know stillness.

Yet, we dance and leap with gleaming trout and crafty bass.

We swoop and dive, free as the swift eyed pelican.

We float and frisk, plunge and play.

Seekers of swimming hole creeks, woodland rivers and runs,

We rise early, before the heat makes us lazy,

And stay late for the pleasures found in lengthening shadows,

Always taking shelter beneath the trees and clouds,

And refuge in the water.

The Greenbrier River near Hillsboro late summer

Midsummer

Photo taken Midsummer on the South Island of New Zealand 2019

Midsummer balances in the trees

And I feel trusting of that joy.

Existing in the happy chaos of discovery,

A singing fish, I search out this element.

Long hidden beneath the surface calm,

Forgotten, the playful thrill

of swift current, the dance of rock and rapid.

Lost for a moment in some back eddy.

Now I swirl forward, splashing, leaping.

I am the silver flash of change,

seen within the inner eye.

Things of the earth mingle with me,

and I, with them.

The membrane breaks, all rushes out.

Stretching to this intention like a seed

And straining to come to form,

I sink down deep to rise up high

Like the river that carries me on.

Appalachian Beachcombing

Bottles and pans found nearby

Living in these mountains, near old homesteads, and sadly where folks dumped their trash for generations, in the hollers or limestone caverns, I have found a pastime I call Appalachian beachcombing. It is a skill honed, from just noticing how many odd treasures could be found where and when. Especially after hard rains near the creeks, and around the areas water comes pouring off the mountain, across backroads, and down steep places, they are waiting. I learned where the best spots were for bottles, old pots, and odd metal parts, ( I admit to especially loving the sun/star burst shaped gears). Sometimes you need to dig a bit, but there very well may be something that wasn’t visible, or even there a month before. 

Sadly, there are still those that think nothing about throwing trash from their cars windows. Bud light cans just go in a horse feed bags for recycling and other un-recyclable stuff ends up in my own trash. It is older items that pique my interest. The cobalt blue bottle barely surfacing from the ground, or an old bent enamel pot upside down in the water are the treasures I seek. The pans find a new life, filled w/ succulents, the bottles rest with others in my kitchen window. On these walks, I also appreciate how nature has made beauty and art with the juxtaposition of rusty old mattress coils, or sculpturesque car fenders. They almost seem to enjoy their new life away from the hands of man, with greenbriers and grapevine creating interest around them.

Winter hunting is best, as a glint, or odd shape is easier to spot without the green cover of warmer seasons. Often I find a jar that has made its own lovely terrarium of mosses, leaves, and grasses. I leave them behind now. I learned they do not flourish at home, but are happier in the woodsy environment. Sometimes I go check on them, to see what is new in their little ecosystem. Perhaps my greatest find years ago was an old bent washtub, now placed in front of the house. Each May I fill that repurposed container with flowers, so it always sits there to greet us beside the stone path as we walk to the door. I wonder about its history, who used it, how was it purposed? And, even more —what are the stories of the mountain folks that touched all the pieces I have collected over the last 20 years. 

A salt shaker

The rock batter on the property boundary and the creek behind us offer many stones for use on the farm. This is also part of beach combing—finding just the right stones for what is needed. The borders to flowerbeds, paths, and gravestones where the beloved pets rest up on the hill— all come from these places, adding their natural beauty anywhere they rest. I remember the gathering of the rocks we used to build the fire pit every time we sit there, and enjoy the process all over again. More recently the patio off the front porch was a project. I am no stone mason, but feeling the weight, shape, and energy of the stones, and working with them was meaningful. When sitting in the porch swing most mornings, I look across those stones placed lovingly in the ground. We worked with those we chose — their shape, size, and the mosaic like pattern, but it was those mountain rocks that decided how it would be. Now they are settled into their new space beneath the pussy willow tree. 

Old washtub looking at the patio beneath the pussy willow

That tree, and the trumpet vine beside the shed, were two of the first plantings I made here on the farm. The grandmother of a student, my first year in West Virginia brought in pussy willow for my classroom. I rooted and planted it that summer. Now it provides shade over the patio stones.Today is another perfect summer day. The dogs sleeping at my feet will be more than happy to go Appalachian beachcombing with me this afternoon. One never knows where the trail leads, though I have a few places in mind. But being a wanderer/stalker means you go where you are called. There are secret spots that seem to often ask for my presence. Gifts await. I will pay attention, noticing the details with mouse-like vision among the grand whole of this big world. 

An old roller skate and a part of a coffee percolator

Creatures and Critters 1) Birds

Heron on the pond in February

It started when I was little. Like most of humanity, I was inspired by the effortless flight of birds, their habits, and beauty. I marveled at stories of their migration. How did they know when to leave, when to return? How could they travel all that distance, as small as they were? My fascination and respect grew the more I learned.

Mama fed the songbirds, keeping binoculars by the large den windows. She taught me the names of those she knew, and an identification book was nearby on the bookshelf. Though better now, even then I could match some nest constructions and songs to particular birds. Much of my childhood was lived in a large tree filled backyard, bounded on all sides by mixed pine forest. A rope hammock hung beneath the biggest oak tree, becoming a perfect space on a summer day for observing birdlife up above. Many twilights were spent listening to the whip-poor-wills call. Whistling the bobwhite quail refrain brought them from the woods up close to me, though I felt guilty for fooling them. Seduced into deeper woods, pasturelands, as I grew older, I walked with my dogs or rode my horse to cover ground all around and through the rural community. There were blackberry thickets, pond banks and creeksides to visit that brought different flyers and waders in. Secret, special places called me to come, sit, observe, and listen to life there. I felt “free as a bird” out living under the sky. That has always been a great attraction for me.

Through time, humans have assigned many qualities to the winged ones — the bluebird of happiness, the white dove of peace, wise as an owl, to name just a few common phrases. Hummingbirds in the Aztec culture were believed to be the messengers between the living and their ancestors, and their gods. They also have been our native peoples symbol for good fortune, joy, and love. In Incan culture both the condor from the south and eagle of the north fly together in the same blue sky, integral in their spiritual cosmovision. Our native peoples also revere the eagle, of course, and did long before our young nation took it as as their symbol. The eagle’s image is found on the United States seal, our money, and other places as a vital symbol of strength and freedom. In the celtic and norse spiritual traditions, the eagle, is seen as the visionary. Other birds are also powerful totems. The god Odin was always accompanied by two ravens, Hugin and Mugin. Each offered him their unique guidance. There are many bird references in the Bible. Horus is a falcon headed god of ancient Egypt. These are but a few examples, showing all cultures hold birds in high esteem for their flight, qualities, and specialized skills. We have absorbed these ideas unconciously, had our own observations and interactions. We are drawn to birds.

Hawk feather

Birds are teachers. Who doesn’t feel that catch inside while watching the perfection of a hawk spiralling above, or stopped to listen with a rush of feeling their “kee  kee-ing” across the sky? They amaze and teach the big view. I am blessed to listen to the barred owls communicate “who- cooks- for- you” across the woods on so many evenings and to hear the crows chortle during mating and nesting each spring. On the farm there have always the crow brothers walking around the horse pastures. There were four, now in recent years, three. I know it is the same birds. I talk. They talk. We have conversations.They know my habits, are keenly observant, and they are unafraid of me. They teach me to pay attention and use my voice. When gathered in a large group (a murder) in the treetops, crows teach the importance of hashing out disagreements. I call it a murder meeting.These days, when I change the suet cake, the downy and red bellied woodpeckers, nuthatches and flickers just hop over to a branch, wait for me to refill the cage, then come right back to feed when I am still present. It is meaningful not to be perceived as a threat, but a provider. They teach patience and trust. The barn swallows raise their young in the rafters each year, building a new nest just out of reach of the cats. Here they raise two or three clutches. The fledged adolescents stay around and assist their parents in feeding and raising the others. The second hatch continues the tradition if a third comes along. They teach commitment to life and each other. The many doves that nest in the huge firs along the driveway teach the value of community. The mockingbird waits all winter alone for his mate to come back from down south. He teaches the importance of holding space for family when they are away, and then to sing 100 songs about it every morning after their return. The great blue heron stands unmoving near the cattails, sun sparkling on the water. She teaches the value of stillness. The gangs of turkey up on the mountain teach us to look closely at the world, and be adaptable.The ducks flying overhead between ponds each morning and evening, teach me to honor the transitions of each day. I think of the wren that nests in the box on the fence post, the shy bluebirds, the singular towhee that appears occasionally, the flash of indigo as buntings fly up from the roadside brambles. They all part of life. They are our relations with wings.

To have rescued a few hummers from their accidental entry into the house, to feel their tiny heartbeat so fast, then watch them fly away from my open hand, following their confusing struggle, brings me fully into the presence of bird energy. I close my eyes and can recall the moment, feeling it all over again. The summer I worked as a back country ranger in Wyoming, ruby throats would come often to my campsite, hover around my head and face, then disappear, as if greeting and welcoming me to their world in the wilderness.

female ruby-throated hummingbird

Last week, sitting right here, several doves flew up suddenly from the ground, and one hit the bedroom window and fell into the tangle of flowerbed beneath. Immediately I remembered the times I carefully took the stunned birds that found my parent’s windows, placed them in a shoebox of grass, and tried to nurse them back to life and flight. Seldom was I successful. But I tried. Those that recovered from their trauma to fly again brought such happiness to my young heart.This dove died, but I held her, acknowledged her life, admired her tan and grey iridescent feathers, her tiny feet, and broad breast. I stroked her warm body and said words, just as I did as a child. 

downy woodpecker

This spring, different birds showed up for a few weeks in a flash of excitement before departing. Among the goldfinches, cardinals, chickadees, bluejays and the other usuals came orioles, grosbeaks, to the feeders and scarlet tanagers in the woods. I noticed their interactions w/the home birds, their unique energy, and felt thrill and wonder. New relations, new teachers. I save feathers and fallen nests. Sometimes I find nests designed with the mane and tail hair of our horses. Of course I love them best. When I brush the horses, those long strands are put outside the barn for foraging birds. They use it to wrap and cushion their eggs in that circle of life creation called a nest. The found nest and feather offerings become part of my home decor, gifts to others, and are present in my spiritual practice and work. It is a way of honoring the blessings of the birds.

With the sunrise, meditating on the element air, the feel and action of wind, and the wisdom shared by the eastern direction, I find birds appear, sometimes alone, sometimes in a flock. Always, the two that I “know” to be my totem bird allies are nearby to offer guidance —- the nocturnal owl and the rowdy kingfisher. I feel “chosen” by them. Experiences brought this awareness. My eldest son likely remembers camping as a child, and following an owl for quite a ways, flying and showing us the path through the woods. Such things happen consistently. I feel something dormant activated within when I hear or see the kingfisher patrolling, These two are such feathered opposites in every way. That may well be part of their teaching, and my learning. Once I read an article describing a study that discovered although birds have calls to alert others to danger, to communicate to chicks or a potential mate, or other purposes, their song, be it a warble or a trill, is an expression of joy. That is a lesson of tremendous value. I ask myself, “What is my joy?”and “How do I express happiness out in the world?”. Birds are angels here on earth, come to restore our spirits, reminding us when we forget that we two leggeds can also feel free, soar, and sing. I am grateful for the teachings. I carry that joy inside. I love birds.

small ceremonial fan

a few found nests

The First Tattoo.

Arm on the Farm

I had made it through 64 years nearly with no body art. Never thought about it again since my elementary aged children talked me out of going with friends for a tat, 30 years ago. But then, out of the unconscious, all 6 symbols came to me in a dream ( 6 is my personal magickal number).Waking with them in my mind, I felt directed to put them in order, and have them permanently placed on my body. I was sure that the design was to be made vertical, their meaning easily seen by me anytime, and placed on my non-dominant, receiving side. Lower inner arm was an easy decision, and I felt the story being told began with the circle image (spirit).The double chevron (creating our own reality) follows, and the elemental compass, central, honoring my spiritual path. Below it, comes a mountain symbol for adventure. Then, the chevron over an open triangle (being open to movement and change). And finally at the bottom, Awen, a Celtic/ Druid symbol with its the 3 rays of light denoting “flowing inspiration” (poetry, music, creation…), and the 3 dots, drops from the cauldron of the goddess Cerridwen (knowledge, transformation, rebirth). Awen is seen as divine essence. 3’s dominate Celtic patterns and knots (spirit, mind, body; sky, earth, sea; past present, future…) I asked my talented son, Schuyler for help joining them together, to make a more artistic design. He and I agreed on his vision, adding 2 small dots and 1 larger, creating what I now have on my arm. After i lived with it awhile, I noticed the story meaning can be read or told from both top or bottom.

Not long after, I left on a 4 month adventure in the Mountains of Michoacan Mexico, having never been out of country before. That is a story of beauty I blogged about elsewhere, culminating in 3 days with the Monarch butterflies. Over the winter of 2019, my lifetime dream came true when I traveled solo again, to New Zealand for the full season there. The communion and solitude I found in that paradise changed me. The life map my tattoo provides everyday reminds me to follow inner guidance, and trust it wholeheartedly. After my return, everyone soon asked “Where are you going next?” and I answered from my knowing, “This is my sacred West Virginia winter”. Spending it here in my home mountains has been a great adventure of a different sort, but just as meaningful and interesting. Time has been dedicated to rumination and reflection, reacquaintance and resilience. It led me to open an office in town, being less solitary, and more willing to be known in my community and the world. Trusting my intuition was good, with the Covid-19 showing itself. Although sadly having clients on my table came to an abrupt stop, the open time allowed me to devote myself to creating this webpage w/ my designer friend up north, dream new dreams, create a new reality, while remaining open to change. So, my first Tattoo has become my WisdomWays brand logo. Until the website process began, it had not been clear to me, but then suddenly, it was. Seems just right. I carry it with me everywhere I go. As Don Oscar Miro Quesada says, “We are creativity, creating creation.” Led by spirit, fueled by inspiration, with my spiritual compass which embodies all times, worlds, and possibilities, I am finding my way each moment.

springtime spiraling

Longer, warmer days find me everywhere but inside at my laptop. This is a good thing. On my knees in the flowerbeds, weeding for hours yesterday with the sun on my face and a flock of chickens surrounding me felt like heaven on earth. Granted I have a quarter sized raw place in the palm of my right hand from pushing the trowel beneath 10,000 deeply rooted dandelions, clumps of grass, and hawkweed. You know I can not wear garden gloves that separate me from the tactile pleasures of the soil. Last night I was that good kind of tired, slept deeply, and awoke to a cardinal calling me from bed at daylight. My knobby old fingers were sore and a bit stiff reaching across the frets for a little morning music, but I was happy, and definitely felt like singing. Another day begins.

Supper never graces the table til after dark now, and it will continue to come later and later, as the daylight grows into the summer. These are changes I longed for all winter. Each morning I feel Walt Whitman’s, “A Child Went Forth…Everything I see becomes who I am…” for a stretch of minutes or hours, lost in time. The spiral brings me back to childhood, adolescence, and years of  being a young mother. Returning to this season of doing, blooms of  tulips, periwinkle and forsythia may as well be the same ones I played beside in my Mama’s garden, the same ones where the pleasures of romance found me at college, or the same ones planted so hopefully in the empty yard of a tiny rental house with a baby cooing on my back. Everything changes, yet everything remains the same. I know this blue sky, this nearly neon green grass, this gusty warm air like the lines on my face. And I can close my eyes and be the tomboy child, the barefoot girl in a long dress, and the young woman wanting to make a home for a family. So much has changed, but all those incarnations are alive and real, just waiting for permission to come out and play. The years fall away…a tear, a smile. I feel it in my heart, my belly. 

If we are formed by our experiences,  I believe it is the experiences out in this place of doing that form us. Spring always declares a beginning. Open the windows. Turn the soil and plant something. Clean and organize.  We are getting ready for the fullness of what comes next. The buzz of life calls to us to use our minds and bodies, to notice, to begin, but mostly to remember the all of who we are and what we know. Shake off the amnesia. Let the child go forth to wander. Let the desire of first love reawaken. Let long ago dreams polish present ones.  Long ago I may not have imagined myself filled with delight in finding worms to hand feed my hens, or in “manure meditation”( the process of picking up the barn lot in silence, broken only by natural chanting from all parts of the farm and woods). But the dreams of a little girl in Buster Browns, playing with her plastic horses in the rocks by the forsythia bushes give such a shine to the dreams I live on such mornings.

Front Porch Swing

Front Porch Swing

Yesterday brought all possible weather. April came in like early March with gale force winds driving sheets of snow into the creaking trees on the mountain. The curtain like movement seemed a daytime version of Northern lights made of white flannel. Then, suddenly the air would clear, the sun would shine, and mist would rise up from the ground. Next it would rain, or hail. This pattern repeated over and over. The wind seemed the great sorcerer in all this.  A wild weather spell was being cast. So today when I woke to quiet golden light, with birdsong fluttering into my senses, I had to go see. It is easy to throw back the quilts on such a morning. I went out to see what magick had been left… and found a rare and brilliant day.

I noticed down along the river yesterday in Ronceverte, the willows leafing out with their characteristic color. Every year I am again reminded of the first four lines of  Frost’s” Nothing Gold Can Stay”.

“Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.”

This is that hour!  I do not want to close my eyes for fear of missing even a single minute of it. Once dressed I went first to the chicken yard to let them out to forage. Thunder, the giant black Australorp rooster, led the way into the frosty field with his hens following along scratching here and there. Standing in the polished light, flapping and crowing, striking green and purple iridescence reflected in his feathers. Off to the barn, the horses stood slumbering in the warmth,  heads down, a back hoof cocked. They roused easily, stretched, then walked over, knowing the joy of  turnout onto new spring grass.

What next? I get to choose. Coffee in the front porch swing, for the first time this year, wins hands down. This becomes a ritual once the weather turns warm, usually before the morning chores call my name. Today I sit there at a bit later  hour. My coat and boots keep me comfortable. All the cats and dogs find their places around. Even old Sage, grey tabby, sits with me. He hides out in the hay all winter, grumpy and acts a little crazed. This I understand. But once Spring breaks open, he comes out, seeking attention. This is a good sign. I notice  for the first time the rosy blush on the cherry trees and maples along the fence line. Another good sign. The muck will thaw, the lilacs and apple trees will blossom, the horses will shed their buffalo robes and be slick and shiny again. This body will grow used to feeling looser and younger. I will go searching for wildflowers, and say all their  names out loud. I will write  poems in my head as I walk. I will  find more questions  than answers, and delight in them. There is no going back. The world expands and calls. The inner ruminations of winter are coming alive again on the front porch, in the woods and on the creek banks of Spring.

wonder of wildflowers

trillium and others

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Lovely wood sorrel

sweet yellow violet

dirty fingernails

When I finally let myself down into the steamy tub last night to soak in mineral salts, I took a moment to look at my hands and fingernails. They were ragged, banged up and stained. But I couldn’t help but smile, having never been able to keep ladylike hands. My hands have always been big, strong, and very busy. Now because of age, add knobby and wrinkled to the list. And I can’t get off the tight jar lids like I used to. But when I see dirty fingernails, I pause to think of the working pleasure that put that soil under them. It has always been that way. Remembering  sitting in church as a child, with a pretty homemade dress on, and my not so pretty fingernails makes it clear that I have not changed much. Saturdays were spent in the building of hideouts with pine branches and tall weeds, messing with horses, or digging for treasure in clay ditch banks. There is much pleasure in the sweet smelling earth that can only be gotten to with hands.

This Sunday morning my hands are the same as fifty years ago, with their torn cuticles and dirty fingernails. Ahh…another Saturday spent enjoying myself! Mama sewed those lovely Sunday dresses for my sisters and me to wear, and yet never criticized my tomboy ways.  She loved to work in the dirt herself, and chose a life dedicated to her enormous yard, spending countless hours in happy creation. She loved the peace and the beauty only found under the sky. I am her daughter that way. Yesterday while I was digging the big hole for a fire pit, fully engaged in determining placement, depth, shape, and size, I remembered Mama building a bench with local rock and mortar, and always adding to her paradise with planning and hard work in a hundred different ways. I felt her there, right over my left shoulder. She was pleased.

Garden gloves get in the way. They prevent the intimacy of the process, such a necessary component. The shovel is a great tool, and digging with one is a satisfying full body effort. But taking off the sod and removing the rocks is a job for hands. When you are on your knees you smell the cool ground, and see its many details. The chickens were scratching around here and there, delighted to see the grubs, beetles, and worms I threw to them every so often. I thought about my mother’s mother, Grandmama Langston. She kept chickens, had a beautiful flower garden and screened in porches filled with swings and rocking chairs. The drinking ladle hung by a spigot at the large front steps made of crushed shells and mortar. This place by the swamp, the heavy scent of her mock orange and the multitude and beauty of her Sweet William beds still live on the edge of a waking dream. It is funny how I am just in the last few years connecting the generational dots.

Although the daffodils have been putting on a show, and all the tree and plant buds are getting plump, we had a few inches of snow last night. The newly dug hole looks cold and raw surrounded by white, in the empty grey light. The search in the rock batter along the property line for good flat rocks to line it, and others to surround it, will have to wait a few days. I can imagine the future however, and completing it will allow for new expression of  life out here in the country.  This will be a place to reflect, alone, and also a setting for friends and family to gather, tell stories, and sing. One more way to be out in the air, beneath the stars or sun, all seasons of the year…where past and present meet, and dirty fingernails and ancestors are welcome.

winter to spring

After a cold day of blowing snow yesterday, this morning the sun is bright, the air is resting, and the blue shines brilliant. Not one cloud. Just remnants remain beneath the trees of all those furious wet flakes. March always seems a struggle between  these two. I can almost visualize winter’s refusal to give in as her power wanes to the softer side of the always turning wheel. Spring smiles because she knows victory is safe, and  just lets winter bluster every so often… a kind sister.  Even us humans may complain, but we tolerate these tantrums, because we feel within us the shift. All the signs are present.  Our hopes begin to feel like possibilities again. Our hearts begin to open a little wider.

When our hearts open, our senses begin to operate fully. We can smell the sweet earthy aroma beneath our feet, and are moved to rake the garden beds, dig, and work (that feels like play). We see the subtle green begin to show in the pasture grass. We hear the crows begin their springtime chortle. We feel a stronger sun on our faces. And we look up more now. We remember the growing season to come, what seeds and plants give. And I do not only mean luscious homegrown  tomatoes, or showoff peony blossom lace. They provide us with joy, beauty, and a strong, often forgotten connection to the earth, on a deep, sometimes unconscious level. 

It is looking at each day now like a birthday where the gifts surround me. It does feel like being born again every March,”Happy Birthday to me!”.  My thank you notes are sent directly to this mother that freely gives. I speak my gratitude with words and songs and prayers. I catch myself chanting as I walk and work outside, and laugh at myself. Laughter is so much easier now. 

But here I want to speak about winter. Although cold is not this body’s friend, and I succumb to the short, dark days unwillingly, I know it is the winter sleep that allows for what awakens in my spirit now. I celebrate the time of quiet rest on the Winter Solstice, and unfailingly appreciate the holy silence and bright stars of the winter sky. The snow is beautiful, and a gallop through it, beyond exhilarating. But this is often a difficult time for many. Yet incubating ideas and dreams all winter, like tiny seeds beneath the snow, is what brings me to where I am now…to this place where a restored creative life can unfurl its first small leaves.

coltsfoot and peepers

There are signs that spring is here, finally, but none more real to me than the little yellow coltsfoot blooms. When I rode in last night right at dusky dark , they were unseen. But today I was out early, and there they were. Perhaps the warm night had teased them into showing their radiant, sunlike blossoms this morning. The ditch banks were filled. If you weren’t paying attention, you might think…dandelions, but look again. There is that definite soft center surrounded by fine fringe, and no leaves. They leap from the earth into full flower, in less than 12 hours time.  Every March this  little flower  says” TaDa!” with it’s bold surprise. The name of course comes from their leaves that appear next…big, broad, and shaped like horses hooves. Then the happy blossom finally turns onto the seed heads, looking more akin to those dandelions.

Coltsfoot is used in traditional medicine for a variety of ailments. Best to make an infusion of the leaves and flowers beneficial for upper respiratory ailments such as coughing, (especially that morning cough), expelling mucous, and as an anti inflammatory.  So gather,  boil it down, and you have a free gift from nature’s pharmacopeia. It is good for my mind, as well. All I have to do is see it there, reaching toward the sun, and it acts as a natural anti depressant. This morning my good mare Jane passed by, and I spied it there in the mud and tall grasses, I just had to shout, “Hallelujah!” It is a simple weed, yet it says so much about where we are on the wheel of the seasons. Yes, I have a few croci blooming in the yard, but I planted them. Although thrilled to see those little purple friends, the coltsfoot lives a wild life, and that I greatly respect with its uncultivated moxie, to be the first bloomer out there in an uncertain world.

Late last night I heard the spring peepers for the first time this year. Another cause for celebration.  Earlier I had ridden through the fields around the ponds a few miles from home looking and listening, but there was silence except for a liquid “plop… plop” here and there around the full circumference. The lesser blue heron  scolded us raucously as we disturbed her off the nest, and she flew low across the water. The moon had risen over Butler mountain awhile before dark, and I stopped there to admire its reflection in the still blackness. It was one of those moments lost from the counting of time. I breathed it all in, content in the spring evening. I wondered to myself about the peepers, “When will the chorus begin”? Then Bess, dog of a lifetime, (who lives to go out riding), decided to follow her bliss into the pond shattering the egg shaped image into many moons, made into lace, among the rippling circles. Rather than creating an unwelcome interruption, a  joy deepening into peace swept through me. My dear 4 leggeds and all the sensual blessings of earth joined together to cast a spell and expand my heart. I thought of all those I love, my children, husband, sisters, friends. I also considered all those that I don’t know across the planet that are feeling pain, suffering anxiety, loss, and transmitted the here and now of this experience, out in waves…knowing in some way the energy of this space in time would reach them, and perhaps touch their hearts with this palpable, deep peace.

At some point, I turned toward home and walked quietly off. It was getting dark. The moon shining bright as a lantern guided me through familiar fields, to the gates, and out to the hardtop. Another 20 minutes to the driveway. As I unsaddled at the barn, I heard the peepers begin, as if waiting  for my return. Off in to the woods, by the creek to the west  of the big pasture I could hear them singing, shouting, exulting. I had won the bet with Rick . He predicted the 12th. Not as optimistic, I said the 20th. Here it was Saint Patrick’s day, and the green frogs with their beautiful mix of baritone and tenor were crooning. Spring’s pre game show had really begun. Maybe it was last night’s peepers that sang the coltsfoot into bloom this morning.

early spring rain

I want to talk about rain. It has been raining for three solid days now. In spring we often say, “showers”, because we are more tolerant now than two months ago, and the word, showers, sounds pleasant. These are not the cold downpours we grumbled about a month ago. I personally would prefer seeing snow sparkling in the barn light, rather than suffer those drenching long black streaks of winter rain. Two nights ago I sat comfortably in the barn aisle just listening to the rain on the roof and the horses content, munching hay. With Bess dreaming dog dreams beside my feet, I pondered the ending of winter in a week, and what its lessons had been this year. Reflection is a part of growth, even when it is means climbing back in and through those old tunnels we prefer not revisiting. Winter always cuts to the marrow of what needs digesting, to survive. I am still chewing. It is pretty tough, and a bit bitter at times.

I also wondered what new would sprout from thoughts and ideas planted at the time of returning light, way back on the holyday of winter solstice. They were given further form and energy in February on imbolc. Today the stirrings seemed to be reaching up through my own consciousness as well as the rain softened ground. The sky brightens from dark slate to dove grey. Yellow shows through the tight green daffodil buds, but I tell them to be patient. I worry the surely to be counted on cold snap will burn the blooms. To the apple and peach trees, I say, “Hold On.” as their little buds consider loosening, much to early. Concerned they will be fooled by this temporary mildness in their rush toward growth, and not bear fruit, so I counsel them. Here I am standing in the rain talking to flowers and trees. But that is what I do. I remember my barn reflection. Okay, I get the connection. Here is the wisdom for my own process. 

Ahhh…patience. This is the difficult one. Excitement, yes! Passion, run toward it! Fear lives only inside my struggle with patience. The stubborn warrior that craves action wakes up.What might I miss if I wait, think about possibilities far too much, for too long? I have nurtured some new hopes and dreams along through the winter. Now they must be protected from this old foe. I have known the pain and loss she suffered by her own hand, and I have compassion. Tell her to take a nap, for now. I must not forget what has been learned.

Just now the wind picks up and brings in a heavy shower of hail. “See what I mean!” I say. Things change so fast. Spring is such a flirt, creating a powerful desire in us. We all seek the movement. But the rain reminds us to pay attention.  The ponds and puddles are beyond full, the river is flooding. The ground is saturated. Trees will fall over now in the wind, their big root balls giving way, pulling up earth and rock. The mountain road is a mess, cut by the water boiling out of the ditches. Snow will fall again, no doubt. Now is the time to just be open, just allowing for a sweet, slow transition from stillness to action, from winter to spring.  This may be the time to go to the barn, listen to the song on the tin roof, and smell the sweet breath of my good mare, who is always patient.

beginning

Starting is the hard part. For someone of my age and experience that is not very computer savvy, I  have let myself be intimidated to begin this process. No more. Just like everything else in this life, it is learn as you go along, trial and error, and continuing to challenge yourself when you get to those uncomfortable places. Mistakes are opportunities.

Today  the rain lightly falls, but not enough to keep the birds from the feeders or the horses under the shedrow. I notice the bulbs have risen another inch from the soil, almost overnight w/ the milder temperatures. This is magick for me every year. Flowers and grass and weeds and vegetables recover their potential after a long cold rest and offer it up to us in wild rifeness and beauty in a thousand different ways. The earth soup is rich and smells alive as I slog through the barnlot in my muck boots, every step a prayer of gratitude for these longer, brighter days, on this thawing earth. We all together reach toward the sun, reminding us of the joy in growing and changing.

I sit w/ the black barn cat, Little Wing, on the bench by the peach tree, and drink my coffee. The day beckons. No longer do I hurry in from the cold, but linger to find one more thing to do outside before returning to the house.  The old yellow cat, Harley,(18) is determined to stay out most days, rather than on the cross stitch cushion inside. I have seen robins on the other side of the mountain when traveling to town, none in the yard yet, but any day now. And I am excited about the new chickens that will join us soon. The hibernation will soon be over, the earth’s  winter restoration complete for this cycle. Snow and ice will return w/ a slap, but the battle leans in our favor, and there is no stopping spring’s intention.