Samhain Season

It is the season of Samhain, literally, summer’s end. It is a liminal time between life and death, growth and decay. It is a time of taking stock. And as the quiet settles in, it is a time of reflection and honoring all that has come before.

Last evening I took my dog for a walk in the dark. Daylight savings time has ended and it feels like 6pm is the darkest hour of the day. I live on a mountain ridge where there are no streetlights but where there are hundreds and thousands of trees. My heart was heavy as I moved along with road—I was struck with a deep realization, a knowing in my gut, not just on the separation papers, that this neighborhood I love is no longer mine.  

My dog distracted me from feeling sorry for myself when she stopped and stared into the woods. There was a rustling nearby and I hoped it wasn’t the bear who is frequently spotted loping around the hillside at dark. I took my flashlight out of my pocket and turned it on into the woods to the right of me, looking for eyes reflecting the light. I saw no eyes, yet the rustling sound persisted. I turned around noticing that the sound was coming from behind me as well, from the woods on the left side of the road too. 

And then I realized what I was hearing—the song of hundreds and thousands of leaves falling on the still night. A snowfall of brown, red, yellow, and orange. I stood and listened for a long while. And I sobbed, as I’ve been doing a lot of lately, but this time in humility. What grace. What a gift to be alive, under the loving stars, and surrounded by the lullaby of leaves finding their new home, their new life. 

[This post is a transition to next year’s theme, where I will be blogging about how I’m reacting and responding to this big change. When I think back to last year when I began writing about the wheel of the year, beginning with Yule, I was so, so settled in my life. It was unimaginable that in the course of a year’s time I would be packing my things, readying myself to make a new home away from my husband. To be on my own again.]

Wheel of the Year: Lughnasadh

Also known as Lammas (or Loaf Mass Day) by some Christians, Lughnasadh falls between the summer solstice and the fall equinox. Because it is the first of the three harvest festivals, celebrants typically bake bread with the year’s first grain harvest. In her book on the Wheel of the Year, Judy Ann Nock says that Lughnasadh is a time of both hope and fear as folk begin to bring in the harvest before blight or other natural disasters strike.

Nock says that Lughnasadh was/is an ideal time for handfasting. Handfasting is a trail marriage, lasting a year and a day. Beginning a handfasting in harvest season would allow a couple to have a chance to work together and overwinter together in close quarters. It’s fitting that this time of year, a time of hope and fear, is connected to romantic love. Aren’t all relationships—any time we open ourselves to love and be loved—a time of hope and fear? We are laid bare, made vulnerable. For what other emotional state can bring us to our knees—falling headfirst, leaping without looking, with hope for true intimacy and fear of disappointment.

How we rest in the space between hope and fear may reveal whether we will experience true intimacy or disappointment.

Recently I came across Terri Windling’s post on Myth and Moor where she writes about creative burnout as a time of fallowness, a time of the Underworld. Whether we are on the cusp of beginning a new creative endeavor or in the flush of falling in love, which is a descent to the Underworld if ever there was one, we stand at the edge in a dizzying trance. We are still in the Land of Summer but feel the call to something Other—though we don’t know yet what it is or how it will all go. And so we pause in uncertainty before making our descent. We pause in the space between hope and fear.

Residing in the space between hope and fear is pain. My own pain. Your pain. The pain of the world. All those traumas, little and big. It is a hard thing to sit in that space. To lie fallow. To heal. 

Sitting with pain has been the biggest challenge of my life—both in my creative life and in maintaining close relationships. I’ve always been fascinated by the story of Persephone, but when the time came for me to journey to my own Underworld, to confront my shadows, I did everything possible to distract myself from the pain. I drank too much, smoked too much, worked too much, and “loved” too much. It took me a long, long time to acknowledge the ways in which pain and the avoidance of pain shaped my relationships and affected my creative life.

And it’s still a work in progress. But now when I feel that anxiety, now when I’m able to recognize that I’m living in the space between hope and fear, I take time to sit with the pain, to sit with both the hope and the fear. To hold myself and others with compassion. I’m not always very good at it to tell you the truth, but that’s my promise to myself. One that I will make every year at Lughnasadh—a year and a day of committing to not only to love and growth, but also to the dark winter ahead.

Blazing Star  (purple wildflower )

Blazing Star (purple wildflower )

Wheel of the Year: Summer Solstice

Have you picked any fruit from your garden yet? Peas, strawberries, or those first tiny zucchini? Or found some peaches and other seasonal goodies at your market? Here in the mountains, the first flowers are fading, making room for plump fruits. We’re beginning to enjoy a Midsummer harvest—a promise of the rich bounty yet to come. Strawberry-rhubarb pie is cooling on the kitchen counter beside a big basket of North Carolina peaches whose sweet juices run off my chin.

Strawberry Jam waiting to be canned.

Strawberry Jam waiting to be canned.

Of the eight spokes on the wheel of the year, the summer solstice, or Litha, is one I feel most of us celebrate intuitively. I need no rituals for I nearly levitate with energy this time of year with the sun shining, the flowers blooming, and the first fruits coming off the vine.  All of Appalachia is in throes of a celebratory love, in a place beyond language. 

But even on days when I feel puny, my spirit low, making me feel like I’m moving through mud, I can enjoy some fresh mint tea and bask in the sun knowing this-too-shall-pass. For here in the height of summer, when we’re covered in a blanket of green leaves and writhing blossoms, Litha is actually marking the beginning of the waning part of the year. The days will grow shorter from here on out. I take comfort in and celebrate this cycle: whether high or low or steady-as-she-goes, this moment will pass, heralding a new season.

I was conceived in late summer. And I always wonder if all the season long, I was calling to my mother, willing myself into existence. Bear me, bear me, borne me. My own firstborn, who surely called out to me across the firmament, for years, demanding my body, was conceived near the summer solstice with the help of modern medicine. This time of year we celebrate all that is in the throes of becoming. 

And in the spirit of celebrating, one needs sustenance. It has been a good year for peaches and I’ve been working on a recipe for Peach Cobbler. I love baking and experimenting: when I make something new I usually have 2 or 3 cookbooks open and a recipe pulled up from an online source. In Brandy’s Test Kitchen we’ve not quite perfected a cobbler recipe—it’s actually a bit of a trick to get the biscuit topping somewhat evenly cooked when it’s resting upon sopping wet peaches. But I did accidentally develop a mighty fine Peach Crisp recipe. I think it works so well because the peaches I’ve been getting are extra sweet and juicy. It’s so good, I might give up on the cobbler. 

Recipe for Peach Crisp

Put a light coating of butter and a sprinkle of sugar into the bottom of a 9” deep dish pie plate.

Add chunks of fresh peaches (with or without skin) or a quart of peach compote so that you nearly fill the dish.

Topping

½ Cup Self-Rising Flour (I love Hudson Crème SR)

½ Cup Rolled Oats

½ Cup Sugar (I like to mix brown and white)

½ Cup Toasted, slivered almonds (Pop them into a toaster oven for about 3 minutes)

Mix these Ingredients

Add ¼ Cup of melted Butter

Stir with fork until butter is evenly distributed & looks like damp sand.

Sprinkle the topping on the peaches and bake at 375. The peaches may bubble over a bit so I put my pie plate on a pizza tin before putting it into the oven.

Enjoy! 

Wheel of the Year: May Day

If the year is divided in halves, May Day, or Beltane, marks the true beginning of the warm half for those of us in Appalachia. Dogwood winter, the harshest of the little winters, has ended, and the breeze on the evening air is warm and sweet. Flowers bloom everywhere. Bees and butterflies flutter and buzz. And hopeful young women wash their faces in the dew of the morning of May Day. Technically the season of Beltane runs from the late days of April through the early days of May with the evening of April 30th and then May 1st being the main event. On May Day young people dance around the maypole, wear a garland of flowers in their hair, and in some times and some places consummated their marriage to be—or maybe just engaged in some heavy petting—by the light of the season’s first bonfires.

Speaking of bonfires, once upon a time I knew a guy, “Alec,” who was born on April 30th, which is known as Walpurgisnacht. Night of the Witches Alec would say with a sly grin and bounce on his toes, waggling his eyebrows at me. I was desperately in love with him and was nearly consumed by the fires of May Day for him. I yearned and burned and tried very hard to have a child with him. 

But at the time I had an actual boyfriend, To., who happened to live all the way across the ocean in Germany. He chuckled when I asked him about Walpurgisnacht. You won’t be surprised that the holiday is not actually a big deal amongst young, cosmopolitan Germans. The fires of my Beltane burned for To. as well, but they were no match for the ocean between us. 

The May Day season of my life has passed; and all its drama—for there were far more characters than Alec and To. in those days! As many as the petals of a dandelion. Oh how I did burn. The Beltane fires still flare on a regular basis, but I’m in no danger of being consumed. Somehow, by the magic of the seasons of life, I’ve learned to refocus that burning energy to things more productive—my work and writing life, managing the care and feeding of my children and the doggos. It’s nice to be grounded, to burn with the steady flame of a sturdy candle rather than a roaring bonfire.

Yet, you might find me out in the early morning, a crown of flowers in my hair, washing my face in the Beltane dew.

I was actually laughing here because I felt ridiculous. But I kind of like how it turned out. (A woman, eyes closed, lying on the ground with flowers.)

I was actually laughing here because I felt ridiculous. But I kind of like how it turned out. (A woman, eyes closed, lying on the ground with flowers.)

Wheel of the Year: Vernal Equinox

Signs of spring

No holiday is more personally meaningful to me than the spring equinox and the Easter season that follows—probably for vanity’s sake because I was born in April and my middle name, Renee, means rebirth. But who doesn’t love the longer days, the promise of summer in the sun’s growing warmth, and the world pulsing with fertility.

There is plenty of easily accessible information on the history and origins of contemporary Easter celebrations in the U.S., and I won’t go in to that much here. But the story of a maiden goddess returning from the underworld is a common trope. In the mountains, I imagine her footsteps leaving behind a trail of daffodil and crocus blooms. And fragrant wild onions as well!

Recently one morning when I walked outside to check the mail a movement caught my eye—a rabbit. Most likely, an Appalachian cottontail, with brown mottled fur and a cute fluffy tail. She stopped under the cover of a pine tree and stood motionless with her head turned in my direction. Under her spell, I stopped too and stood looking at her. I thanked her for visiting my yard and hoped she enjoyed the blueberry offering I’d left out the night before.

One of my early ancestors, William Richard McCann*, a resident of North Carolina, supposedly believed in the fae folk and practiced the custom of leaving out a bowl of milk or whatnot to appease the fairies inhabiting the land around him. Leaving such offerings of milk, honey, bread, or whiskey put a family in good relation to mischievous land spirits. I often think about my ancestor’s offering. Every time I have a spot of good fortune I wonder if it is the inheritance gifted to me by kin hundreds of years ago. In honor of my heritage I too leave out treats for the magical creatures that inhabit the mountains around me—whether it is bird food for the downy woodpeckers and chubby nuthatches or blueberries for the deer and cottontails.

On this vernal equinox, when all is balanced for a moment, in harmony, in that space just before the northern hemisphere explodes with life, magic, and wonder—all our winter longing made manifest—I give thanks for another spring, for another rebirth, for each breath my lungs hold.

*I have a reference for this; I found it mentioned in a McCann genealogy book. When I locate the photocopied pages lost somewhere in my files, I will give a proper reference.

Purple Crocus

Purple Crocus

Wheel of the Year: Imbolc Reflections

Of the eight holidays of the Wheel of Year, in the past I’ve felt the least connection with Imbolc—a traditional Gaelic holiday marking the midpoint between the winter solstice and the vernal equinox. It is a celebration of the growing light, and a harbinger of spring, but occurs in the depth of winter. But this year I’ve found new connection to this old celebration. Yes, it is a time of hunkering down, but it is also a time of stirrings, creativity, and divination.

Although Americans look to the secular groundhog, Phil, for weather prediction, the story is much older, and refers to the day that the crone of winter goes out one last time to gather wood for her fire. If the weather is good, she’ll be able to collect a lot of wood and winter will last a while longer. If the weather is bad, she’ll only be able to gather a small amount and spring will return relatively soon.

Rhododendron blossoms in snow. With the weather we’ve been having in Virginia, I’m anticipating an early spring!

Rhododendron blossoms in snow. With the weather we’ve been having in Virginia, I’m anticipating an early spring!

This year, my 43rd year—and if I’m lucky, my own midpoint—Imbolc takes on special significance. In my earlier years I’ve cultivated a creative practice, something I do almost daily, almost instinctively now, and finally there are little stirrings, promises of manifestations. 

I was talking recently with a friend about Pema Chodron’s classic book, When Things Fall Apart. Although bitter disappointment can hit any time of year, there’s something about this time of year that can leave me feeling anxious and depressed. Will winter ever end—the wet weather, the cloudy days, the being couped up. It can feel the same with this season of my life—I work and work but can’t always see clearly where it’s going.

These buds form in the fall and hang on, a promise, until the warm sun of spring.

These buds form in the fall and hang on, a promise, until the warm sun of spring.

Imbolc is a reminder for me to live in the moment, even in times of confusion. To trust those gentle stirrings, to work towards a sunnier day when the trees are full of life and green. This year I am embracing this holiday that feels in the thick of winter. This year I’m looking for little signs of life, promises of things to come.

Wheel of the Year: Yuletide Reflections

solistice-advent-wreath.jpg

[Advent wreath with all candles lit.]

Memories of Christmas Past. I grew up in a conservative Freewill Baptist church in West Virginia, a type of church that would later be branded as “evangelical”—a term I’d never heard until the Bush Jr. presidency when I was already six years deep into adulthood and questioning those initial religious teachings.

Rather than using political terms, what I remember is a congregation of earnest people attending a little, red-brick country church named after my paternal great-grandpa who had donated the land on which the church house was built. Our church was one of many in our rural community. Which, if you know anything about how protestant churches are established (spoiler: disagreements in a congregation spawn new congregations) is quite telling about our little zip code. For example, although it has changed, in those days it was frowned upon for women to wear pants to services; if there was a kerfuffle over women’s attire, a group of people might throw themselves up a new little church. 

Despite our many churches and small-town squabbles, the form of worship in any one of them was fairly similar. Some might sing only old hymns without the accompaniment of musical instruments; others might have drum sets (!) and sing contemporary rock-and-roll influenced songs; but most had an informal choir who sang traditional hymns accompanied by a piano and guitar. People fellowshipped by shaking hands or sharing a hug and smile; and after a time of communing the able-bodied knelt in prayer, our elbows resting on the padded seats. The holidays were celebrated in a similar manner. For example, during Christmas, I never knew of a single church that didn’t put on a nativity play in some form. It was a time to celebrate the birth of The Son.

Our Christmastime traditions were to share and eat fruit baskets (oranges, grapes & apples), sing carols, and gather with extended family to exchange gifts and cheer on December 24th. That night kids went to bed eager for sleep so that Santa could visit. After the final opening of gifts on Christmas morning, we had a ham dinner midday Christmas. If your parents were divorced and both sets living in the community, as was my case, you would do all of this twice. 

New Traditions. I was a very serious-minded young woman—off-putting, odd, and earnest—and I took my religion seriously. By the time I reached adulthood, while other kids had been sneaking beer and sex, I had read my Bible through several times. Because of all that studying, I developed an intense interest in the history of Christianity. Like so many others before me, the more I learned the more questions I had. I took deep dives into Luther, Jehovah’s Witnesses, The First Council of Nicea, Gnosticism, hermeneutics, various “pagan” traditions both historical and modern, Buddhism generally & Tibetan Buddhism (Kagyu school) particularly, and finally Integral Yoga. Integral Yoga [this is my definition] is an American school of yoga with strong spiritual ties to India (a simplification but I’m trying to be concise as possible). 

Yoga was the final, and to my knowledge oldest, tradition I studied seriously. After all those years of searching and burying my head in so many ancient teachings, I chuckled when in conversation with a swami I was reminded of an old lesson I had learned in childhood: have faith. Although I was a natural in Jana Yoga path (seeking knowledge), it was the Bhakti Yoga path (surrender and devotion to God) that my heart and soul most needed. I had read enough books, debated enough philosophers; I needed a grounded practice. I longed for community, for ritual, for knees bent in supplication and thanksgiving.

My swami encouraged me to find a spiritual community that honored my Christian heritage as well as the person I had become since childhood. In the decade after that conversation, I have found community, or communities, though not yet in the form of a congregation (moving, small children, & most recently coronavirus have made it difficult). But I have developed a practice at home.

In recent years I have been celebrating Advent this time of year. The last month of autumn is a special, quiet time for me, the earth around me goes into a deep sleep; and as an academic, it is a time of completing projects and taking time off before the new semester begins. I have not given up my love of knowledge and books, and enjoy time spent in reading and contemplation for each candle lit on the Advent wreath. I love reading of variations on the tradition, and people’s differing reflections as the weeks go by. This year I think of hope, faith, joy, and love, but also have been influenced by a newer tradition of the Advent of the Solstice, or an anticipation and celebration of the Rebirth of The Sun.

I’ve celebrated the winter solstice (northern hemisphere), or Yule, for many years. But this year is the first that I’ve made a real Yule log with wood, pine branches, and teaberries gathered from around my home, and practiced the Advent of the Solstice. In the solstice advent wreath, we reflect upon the four major elements and associations with each one: 

  • typically the 1st week is air, the element of beginnings, the east, intellect & memory, and the colors white or yellow;

  • the 2nd week, fire, the element of transformation, the south, action & creativity, and the color red;

  • the 3rd week, water, the element of endings, the west, emotion & connection, and the color blue;

  • and the 4th week, earth, the element of stability, the north, the body & groundedness, and the colors green or brown.

This year, when I’m decidedly middle-aged, I have reflected on how each element has represented the first half of my adult life, with me being overly focused on air with my search for knowledge, or on fire as I indiscriminately followed every passion that tempted my senses. I was out of balance and experienced a lot of chaos—divorces, constantly moving—during that time of painful growth. And then I had children, which grounded me in the element of water and my emotions, and has been inspiration for creating stability—although keeping things in balance continues to be a struggle. But I am maturing, growing roots, nurturing relationships. And realizing that all those early years were a gift in their own way—I can stand rooted, comfortable in my own body, having faith in my own knowledge and experience, swimming in doubt and fire and wonder. 

[Teaberry in snow. Small plant with red berry growing out of moss and lichen.]

[Teaberry in snow. Small plant with red berry growing out of moss and lichen.]