December 8

My father-in-law married a second time. Joe was already out of the house, and we in fact were together, even though I was just a few months out of my teens. At the time it seemed like we were mature and worldly—which is funny, really, because basically we didn't know anything.

My father-in-law and his sophisticated Dutch second wife moved to Connecticut and settled in to the kind of country life that people from Manhattan think is country life, but really has very little to do with anything, except perhaps old movies and books.

Else had come from Holland in her twenties. When I met her she had just left a job at the Museum of Modern Art to marry and move to Connecticut. Being Dutch, naturally her parents were Dutch as well. Her father spoke presentable English, but her mother could barely speak a word outside of her native language. Mrs. Martinus (yes, Martinus is a Dutch name which honors Saint Martin) nonetheless managed to communicate. She could sew and make things and was very clever in this way. SInce I liked to sew and make things as well, we connected. The fact that my grandfather was also Dutch didn't hurt. Seriously, I remember liking Mrs. Martinus very much, even though we could barely communicate.

One day in early December, when the Martinuses were here for a long visit, Else took us both to a demonstration on handmade Victorian ornaments at the Wilton Garden Club. I was in seventh heaven—this was the kind of thing I had dreamed about people doing when I was growing up in Brooklyn. Something like this was the sort of thing I longed for, but had no idea where to go about looking for. The demonstrator gave out patterns for stuffed cats and birds to make for the tree. I couldn't wait to get home and try them. Mrs. Martinus was also enjoying the demonstration, which she managed to convey to me through little touches of the hand and smiles. She always reminded me of a sweet, purring tabby cat.

There was a luncheon after and we sat together. Mustering up her best English she was determined not only to make conversation, but to make contact with me. Very formally she spoke. This was a woman whose husband ate both sandwiches and even potato chips with a knife and fork, carefully cutting the sandwich in to even pieces. The Dutch then were a very formal people. They weren't too far away from sweeping decorative patterns in the sawdust they put down on their floors. Neither were they very far away from brutal Nazi occupation and being so hungry that they were reduced to eating tulip bulbs. This is, perhaps what made them so practical—think Amsterdam, if you know what I mean. Very formally, I'll say it again, she spoke. I could see her arrange her face and her posture as she balanced a tea cup in one hand. "Do you like fish?" she addressed her question to me. "Yes. I like fish" I responded. "I as well like fish" she informed me. We sat for a moment, very proud of our exchange. Then her face changed. The formality was gone and she addressed me once again. She carefully pronounced every word in this sentence, the only full sentence I ever heard her say in English. "When Else went to America—it was hard." With this one sentence, she somehow managed to convey to me her whole story. Her daughter leaving Holland, moving thousands of miles away, to a new land, a new country. The loss of it. Her sadness. In three carefully pronounced words, she managed to convey to me the most intimate story of her life. "It was hard." I still remember it as one of the most profound conversations of my life.

That Christmas Mrs. Martinus gave me a lovely little gift—two Kunstlerschutz animals. "Esel" and "Kuh" she said. Donkey and Cow, the animals who carried Mary and who were there when she gave birth. I don't remember any other gifts from that time, but I still have Esel and Kuh and they are displayed, without fail, even if I don't put out a creche.

On the night Else died Joe's father told me the story of why she had come to America. Apparently the reason she left Holland, to seek a new life and adventure in this country—in New York City, among the artists and museums. He told the story as if the life she might have led in Holland was a tragedy, narrowly averted. He expected me to understand. When Else was twenty her mother said "Soon you will be married too! I am so looking forward to it. We can meet every Friday and go to the market to shop for dinner together." I could see Mrs. Martinus saying this, happy at the thought of shopping with her daughter, exchanging recipes, teaching her to cook and make a home perhaps. After the abject horror of living through World War II, she was looking forward to the simple joy of having her family intact and shopping for dinner in a peaceful market with her married daughter. According to my father-in-law, the thought of such a life was enough to cause Else to flee both her mother and Holland.

It was hard.

December 6 - fragmented thoughts

Today is Saint Nicholas Day. The sun will set at 4:20 PM in Connecticut. It will set at 4:20 every day between Saint Nicholas Day and Saints Lucia's Day on December 13. After this sunset comes a little bit later. On the 14th it sets at 4:21. By the Winter Solstice, it doesn't set until 4:23. And on Christmas, after a four day rest in the sky, seemingly standing still, the sun begins its six month journey back north. 

On Saint Lucia's Day, on December 13, the oldest daughter in a Scandinavian family would wake the others, wearing a crown of lit candles. Who knows how this custom came about, but it seems like that crown of candles could represent the rays of the sun, on a significant day when the pattern begins to change. 

Personally, I don't worry about the story of the virgin birth. Lao Tsu was also said to have been born of a virgin mother—conceived by a shooting star, which isn't that far off from the truth, given that carbon and other minerals in our bodies were created when stars died.

It's funny. I know people really worry about things like the virgin 
birth and the physics of resurrection but these things never bothered 
me. Christ told us to love one another and that there's a loving, 
forgiving god at the heart of the universe. That feels like more 
than enough truth and good news to last me forever.

I do however firmly believe that Mary had birth pangs just like the 
rest of us.

December 4 - Vespers

In monasteries, time is measured not so much from sun to sun as  from prayer to prayer. Imagine a medieval winter. The hush of early evening. A cold wind blowing. People hasten to find shelter around a humble fire, the only source of light and warmth when daylight fades so quickly. Behind the monastery walls monks pad quietly in to a stone chapel, breaking their silence only to chant the evening prayers. This evening office is called vespers.

We do not have a monastery in our town, but we do have an abbey. The nuns farm, make cheese, work a forge as smithies and pray six times a day. They wear the traditional black habit and are cloistered behind screens much of the time, although from time to time we run in to them at the market or the hardware store. I once ran in to a nun at the health food store buying black cohosh for her menopausal sisters, and the blacksmith nun shows up now and again at life drawing class.

I stopped by the chapel this evening, nestled deep in the Bethlehem woods. Difficult to find, even in daylight, unless you know just where it is. Tonight when the bell rang at 5, as it does every evening, they ceased to be the blacksmith nun, or the cheese making nun as they padded softly in to the chapel to chant vespers. They chanted in one voice. Perhaps they shared one intention—I can't know this without looking in to their hearts, but I believe they must try, otherwise they couldn't be nuns. I sat in the shadows and listened to the Gregorian chant. Doing so I fell almost immediately in to a deep meditative state. I thought that I had been there for ten minutes, then looked at my watch and realized that forty had gone past. 

How strange that time in this cloistered abbey is so strictly portioned out by the offices of the day. Lauds at 6AM, Terce at 8, Sext at noon, None at 4, Vespers at 5 and finally compline at 7:30. I believe they wake in the night as well, for prayer and reflection. They live by the clock, but their chant allows them to transcend linear time.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FGGo6I5v8i0

December 3 - Stars

Astronomers acknowledged today that they have miscounted the stars. There are probably three times as many stars as previously believed. Ah, scientists, always catching up a few thousand years later to the poets. Poets have always known that you cannot count the stars. Twenty years ago I sent out a Christmas card which stated "We are made of the same stuff as the stars. Look to the night sky. Greet your brothers and sisters."

It is true. We were born from the same stuff as the stars, and we carry ancient stars within our bodies. I can't remember which character in a science fiction story always referred to human beings as "carbon units" because our bodies contain so much of this element. Now we know that carbon was created in the heart of a star, long, long ago. The iron that carries oxygen through the rivers of our bloodstream was created when a star died. 

Lao Tsu was said to have been conceived by a shooting star which sparked life in his virgin mother. How closely this mirrors the truth of our origins. Elements from the stars sparked life in a virgin, sleeping earth in to life and more importantly, in to light. 

Before we could look at stars through a telescope, many cultures carved the sacred spirals in to stone and wood. In this photograph of stars, taken by the Hubbell telescope, pay particular attention to the little galaxy, down in the right hand corner. It looks exactly like the spirals on the stone which marks the passage in to Newgrange in Ireland.

December 2 - The Presbyterian Brownies

Over the Thanksgiving dinner table I learned about a quiet uprising in a small Presbyterian community in upstate New York.

The gentleman who told me the story was happy to be married to a woman who baked cookies for him every day. I could tell that he felt particularly blessed in life, enjoying something most men only dream of in a wife. He lives his life with the awareness that at any moment, a home made cookie is there for the taking, should he so desire. He clearly felt that he had hit the jackpot when this cookie-baking woman agreed to be his wife.

When my mother was a child, the church still frowned on dancing, card playing and certain practices which I will not go in to here. There were even certain flavors which the church seemed to frown on, although the law had not been codified. The Methodist Church embraced vanilla, lemon and peppermint, unless of course the recipe was "too rich". The only time chocolate made an appearance was at church suppers, when we were served a brick of van-choc-straw flavored ice cream after we had cleaned our plate. Even then the full effect of the chocolate was diluted by the vanilla and strawberry.

I still remember the Friday evening my mother brought a batch of cupcakes, frosted with mocha icing, to a church event. I had, literally, never experienced mocha before—I didn't even know that it was a possibility. The cupcakes themselves were predictably white, but the hint of coffee in the chocolate frosting tasted decadent, forbidden, possibly even roman catholic. I savored that cupcake, eating it slowly as we watched John Wayne in "The Alamo" projected on to a white sheet hung in the church basement. I can tell you exactly what I was wearing (the navy blue sweater with the angora collar) and where I sat (front row on the floor) when I ate that cupcake. Ignoring the stern admonitions of the adults, I snuck up to the refreshment table under cover of movie-night darkness and took a second cupcake. Despite what I had been told would happen if I ever took a second cupcake, I didn't get a terrible stomach ache, although I am aware that I still may have to "answer to God" for what I did.

But enough already about my childhood in Brooklyn. What's going on with the square-dancing, cookie-eating Presbyterians?

I can't sugar-coat this. I learned last Thursday that brownies—nay all forms of chocolate—have been OUTLAWED in at least one upstate Presbyterian Church. A claim has been made that the crumbs are impossible to get out of the wall-to-wall carpet. The gentleman-whose-wife-bakes-cookies told me this story. He still looked shell-shocked, as if he can't quite comprehend what has happened in his church. He told me that his wife, in an attempt to circumvent church law and appease the powers that be, had even gone so far as to actually invent a "drop-brownie". Instead of baking her  brownies in a pan, which produces a crunchy edge, but dark crumbly middle, she painstakingly drops the brownie batter in measured spoonfuls on a cookie sheet, thus eliminating crumbs. But even this offering was rejected.

Contemplating the prospect of never eating chocolate in church again, she was moved to speak. "The drop brownies are SO SMALL you can put the entire thing in your mouth. There are NO CRUMBS if you eat them properly!" she said. But even the lovingly conceived drop brownies fall under the heinous ban on chocolate forced on the people by an unthinking church hierarchy. This was just too much. The cookie-baking wife looked at me conspiratorially and said "I don't know what I'm going to do. I feel like a rebel..."  I looked her in the eye and responded "Well, maybe you'll just have to nail one of those drop brownies to the church door..." Much to my surprise, they got it.

December 1

The clock starts ticking today in earnest, counting down the days until both Yuletide and the Nativity. The floor in my bedroom is ripped up and my house is in chaos—the floor was supposed to have been down two weeks ago but one disaster led to another, including water leaks and missing parts. While other people put their decorations up over Thanksgiving weekend, we surveyed the damage.

With paint spattered hands, I took off an hour to go attend the little Lutheran church in town for the lighting of the advent wreath on Sunday morning. The list of "things to do" weighed heavily on my mind, but I "took the time" anyway. As if reading my thoughts, the young vicar (as I think of him) introduced his sermon by speaking about time and clocks. I couldn't tell you what liturgical point this lead him to because I fell in to my own advent reverie.

Many years ago I suggested taking a fast from light during advent on Midwinter's Eve. Shut off the lights! Enter the darkness. What would it feel like, I mused, to not only shut off the electric lights, but to turn the clock to the wall for a day? Two days? Several? How would we experience our life without the clock? What would happen to our body and our spirit during this holy season, if we turned away from the clock and back to the natural rhythm of the earth and sun? What would we notice. Would the daily sinking of the sun be more apparent to us? Would we become more aware of how it seems to walk the horizon instead of rising in to the sky? Would we be aware of the moment when its path changes direction and it begins to ascend back to the center of the sky?

Would the women, who always have "too much to do" in December, turn inward instead and savor the richness of this time of darkness and rebirth?

The moon was shining in the sky at ten in the morning on Sunday, reflecting but nearly hidden by the bright light of the sun. Even on the brightest day, the stars still shine above us, but we don't see them. The mystery of the night is hidden in plain sight, obscured by the bright light of our mundane lives. The clock and the light bulb obscure the message as December beckons us to follow her in to the dream time.

Candle dances elsewhere

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TlJCpSzV-_c&feature=related

Brinksmanship

Every once in a while the turkey is done before the drippings have browned properly. I don't know why it happens, but this is one of those times. As I write this I am engaged in a test of wills with my turkey. To make a good, thick brown gravy the drippings must reach the point where they have browned but are not at all burned. To achieve this the pan must be fearlessly left in the oven until just the right moment. A moment too long and you are left with the shame of having burned the gravy and responsible for completely ruining the holiday meal. Yield to fear and remove the pan too soon and the gravy will be pale and insipid, again ruining the meal.

One unforgettable year an aunt of mine (by marriage) decided to opt out of making gravy. Fourteen people at the table, who had opted out of breakfast and lunch in anticipation of that first mouth-watering bite of mashed potatoes and hot turkey gravy, raised the cry of "where's the gravy?" when they collectively realized that something was missing. My aunt directed them to the small dishes of mayonnaise beside each plate and said that she had dispensed with the gravy because "fat is bad for you." She said this with a perfectly straight face while presiding over a table heavy laden with marshmallow swathed yams and butter drenched string beans.

My mother-in-law rose from the table, along with her sister the nun. Without a word the two marched in to the kitchen, retrieved the turkey pan and created a make shift gravy, saving the day and rendering them forever the best cooks of their generation.

A sad Thanksgiving story about an animal

     Some of you will remember how much I loved my big dog Sumo. Sumo was really more of a wolf than a dog, although I can't prove this. Wolves communicate by telepathy as far as we know, and Sumo certainly had this capacity.

     My father-in-law was not a very nice man, but in later years he was humbled by life, and in this humility he tried to open his heart. 

     In 2002 Thanksgiving rolled around, as it seems to every year, when you're least expecting it and far from prepared. A few days before, on the Tuesday in fact, my dog took ill. He had been ill before, but this time it was serious and the vet told me that his liver was clearly damaged. I was heart broken. To say I was heart broken is not an exaggeration, I felt this loss very keenly. I myself was ill, without knowing it at the time and the whole thing just made me tired.

     Thanksgiving morning rolled around and we were due on Long Island to spend Thanksgiving with my father-in-law, who was visiting his sister. It was the first time he had come back east for a holiday in a long time, and the first he would spend without his wife.

     I couldn't do it. The thought of fighting traffic while I felt so tired was just too much. My husband, neither of us knowing that I was sick with Lyme myself, got angry at me for wanting to bail, but I did anyway. I don't think I've ever backed down from a family obligation, but I just couldn't see myself in traffic and I couldn't see leaving the big dog alone. Finally I just told him "look, go alone. By the time you get home you'll be over being mad at me." I had to insist several times that I actually wanted him to go, before he finally believed me and went.

     I had a turkey and I put it in the oven. I made potatoes and gravy, squash and cranberry sauce. I cooked all day and found it strangely healing, even though I was alone and would be eating alone. But I wasn't alone. My faithful dog was at my side, resting on his couch.

     Finally at evening I took out two of my mother's Wedgewood plates. She was very proud of them. They'd been purchased from a minister's wife, which made them even better in her eyes. I wasn't sure if she was rolling over in her grave, knowing that I was about to serve Thanksgiving dinner to a dog on her precious Wedgewood. Honestly, I don't think she was. I think she was proud of me.

     The dog and I dined in the living room. He ate his dinner with dignity and restraint. I swear, he didn't wolf it down, but took the time to savor. 

     After dinner I sat next to him—he on his couch and me in a large armchair, which he was specifically not allowed to sit on. I went in to deep meditation, and in this altered space I reached out to his spirit. Without speaking I formed the words in my mind—or rather, in the  energetic field:

     I love you. If it is your time to go, I will stand by you and I will not shirk my responsibility. 

I will help you and be with you to the very end. But, if it is not your time, and you want to stay and fight I will fight with you. I will do everything in my power to make you well and I will take care of you. 

     I was filled with a strong sense that this was not the only time he and I had been together. I saw him as a wild animal who had crept up to my campfire. I knew he would lay down his life to protect me. And suddenly I realized that my dog had silently gotten down off his couch while I was meditating and he was now in the chair with me. I could feel him telling me that he wanted to fight. Although he knew he wasn't allowed in the arm chair, he rested his head on my with complete confidence that he was welcome. I gave thanks for him.

     It was, in a very strange way, one of the most satisfying Thanksgivings I'd ever had.

     My father-in-law called me from Long Island that night . He told me that he had missed me, but he understood that I was overwhelmed and tired. He spoke kindly, in a way that was new for him, at least with me.

     We moved in 2003. Sumo got to go with us to a house in the country. He was old and he was frail, but he was proud of his new home and loved living in the country. He finally died on Valentine's Day in 2005, one week before my father-in-law had a stroke and we were called away to New Mexico. The ground was soft, in an unprecedented winter thaw, so we were able to bury him outside the back door of the new home he loved so well. I held him in my arms as he died and my mind was filled with an image of him running in a green field as he took his last breath.

Full Moon Dark Night

What was it like

to rest in darkness

inside our mother

waiting to be born?

What was it like 

to emerge in to

the light of the world

for the first time

seeing?

What was it like

to see our mother's face

that first time

having known her

all along?

What was it like

to hear our name

spoken for the first time?

Was there a name we bore

before this

long forgotten now?

And what will it be like

to be borne finally

out of this world

and in to

perhaps another?

What will we see

that we cannot yet imagine?

What could be as beautiful

as the surprise of light

that greeted us

when all we had known was darkness?

Glitter and construction paper

On Zuni Pueblo a kachina appears in the village roughly 40 days prior to the winter solstice bearing the news that the sun will return. Saint Martins Day, which marks the beginning of winter darkness is 40 days before the Yuletide rebirth of the sun. Interesting how the 40 day period of preparation occurs in two cultures which did not have any contact with one another. It leads me to believe that it is a truth—something which arises from some deep primal memory. Everyone whoever was lies interred in the earth—every single person who ever lived returns to the earth. All of their memories reside within the earth and they are accessible when we open ourselves to them through ritual preparation.

Last night I went to a felting class at Flanders Nature Center in Woodbury. We sat together for three hours and made deer out of wool roving. Earlier in the day I painted an angel. Making things restores my soul. As children we all made "christmas decorations". A treasured item in my house is a Christmas tree my son made when he was 5 years old. (Actually, it was on display in the window of Max's Art Supply Store in Westport. Back in the day, when Max was still alive, he asked several local artists to bring art works by their children for a Christmas display in the window. Basically this was Bran's first "commission". Even though it involved glitter and construction paper—it counted! I realize that most of you don't know Max's, but trust me when I say that I would have been greatly honored to have had my work shown in the window.)

Making the trees was a wonderful process. The weeks leading up to Christmas was always filled with the making of ornaments when he was small. I believe that the stages of development which children go through are a microcosm of the stages of development the human race has gone through. This morning as I was looking at my deer and it came to me in a blinding flash—the ornaments we make connect us to the spirit of the animal. The Zuni make Kachina dolls for the children to teach them about the various spirits which make up their cosmology. Some of these spirits are animals, others are guardians of some sort. (I do not have the privilege of more knowledge of their customs than this.) The making of the dolls created to teach is a sacred process. When our hummingbirds left in September I made a small hummingbird to honor the spirit of the birds and to pray for their safe journey. We love our hummingbirds. Not a day passes in the summer when we do not delight at their antics. They bring joy in to my heart. As I was making the little hummingbird, I thought of the hummingbird kachina. I understood the impulse to honor the spirit of the bird which goes in to the making of a hummingbird kachina. The making of the kachina embodies something about the relationship the pueblo people have with the hummingbird. The making of the hummingbird embodied the love I have for the bird in some essential way. It was prayer, it was love—it was magic and communion. It was a farewell and a hope for their safe return.

Creating images of the many beings which are a part of Yuletide and Christmas can be a way of communing with those spirits. When we buy an angel or a reindeer it is not the same as making one. The process of making a deer or an angel opens the imagination to the spirit of the that being. Making it is a process of meditation—your mind is focused, a channel is opened. You relax, your thoughts wander, and in their wandering they connect to the memories within the earth—the memories of those people who lived long ago and still were in intimate relation with the earth in a way it is hard for us to understand today. 


As I gessoed an angel this morning, my mind drifted to the nativity story. As you know I never concerned myself with the idea of the virgin birth—it never mattered to me. I know far too much folklore to know that there are numerous other enlightened ones who were said to have been born of a virgin—the joining of the energy of sky and earth. I remembered my father telling me that virgin meant "young girl" and nothing more. The image of a young girl, still untouched by the world came in to my thoughts as I brushed on the gesso. Untouched. I remember when I was young and filled with hope and an undiminished capacity for love. There is a time in each of our lives when we are still untouched by the world—our capacity for joy and love undiminished by experience and hurt. The nativity story took on a different shade of meaning as I envisioned a child born of a young woman who was, as yet untouched—whose capacity for love was unbounded. This image is powerful.


Imagine that time, not all so long ago, when all of the decorations for the Yuletide season were brought in from outdoors, or made in the home. Each house had ritual items displayed which were gathered or crafted by the people who live there. Envision a tree decorated only with brown cookies baked in the shape of woodland animals. Imagine a rustic nativity scene shaped from clay and painted—or a Swedish horse, simply carved from wood.


I've read that certain Asian shamans create animals from birch bark and hang them on trees. Each animal acts as a messenger, carrying the prayer up the tree from earth to the heavens. In ancient Rome, gifts of small clay animals were given as gifts in this season—probably as an amulet of protection for the animals people depended on for their livelihood. In Mexico and the Southwest people hang up "milagros" as a form of prayer. The milagro, or miracle, is shaped as a person or a domestic animal. They are hung near images of saints and holy people as a tangible representation of prayer—an offering made with the intention of helping, healing or protecting the person or animal represented by the tiny tin or silver figure. These little figures look not unlike the "charms" we used to get out of vending machines. As a child I wondered why these little toys were called "charms"—like a magic spell. I realized that they were related to milagros, which they resemble. Undoubtedly the first tiny "charms" were worn as magical protection for home and domestic animals. This evolved in to the small pieces of jewelry that pom pom girls in the 50s wore on charm bracelets.

I strongly suggest that you all prepare for the great winter festivals which lie ahead as people did in an earlier time. Make something. Create a deer, or a figure of Father frost. Make a nativity scene or an image of the sun reborn. Craft an angel from simple materials. Even if it is only a stick figure—make sacred images with your hands and with your heart and see what is revealed to you in the process.

White Horses of Winter/Sun Horses

There are a great many white horses which appear in wintertide, Saint Martin's horse being the first. The German expression is "Saint Martin rides a white horse" meaning that the winter snow is coming. He is followed by Saint Nicholas on December 6th, also traveling with a white horse. The hobby horse appears with the mummers and, in Wales, the mysterious Mari Lwyd appears on the Solstice itself—the shortest day. The Feast of Epona, the horse goddess, falls on December 18. Following right on the hooves of Epona, "in comes" Saint George and his beleaguered horse in the mummers play.

In England there are numerous earthworks in the shape of white horses carved in to the hillsides. Filled in with white chalk they can be seen from a distance—from the sky. As with so many British folk figures "nobody really knows what they mean..."

The horse is a sun symbol in several cultures. In this winter season the pale white sun rides low in the sky, across the horizon. I never put the team of winter horses together before, but there you have it. The horse is a symbol of the sun and the white horse seems to be a symbol both of winter snow and of the winter sun. The Mari Lwyd seems to bear this out. This Welsh custom—which could be described as peculiar even in relation to other Anglo-Celtic traditions—involves mounting a horses skull on a pole and bringing it round from house to house. The horses jaws are wired so it "snaps" at people.  Imagine encountering a ghostly horse skull puppet in a shadowy lane on the darkest night of the year and having it run at you and snap. The Mari Lwyd is also called the grey mare. If we think of the horse as a solar symbol—or a magical object—it makes sense that the horses skull, as opposed to the lovely living white horses ridden by Sinter Klaas and Saint Martin, appears on the dark night of the solstice when the sun dies. 

The meaning of the white chalk horses carved in to the countryside is also unverified, but I suspect that they too may be sun symbols. The lively hobby horse of the mummers represents the sun in strength and splendor and the Mari Lwyd reminds us of the death and rebirth of the Yuletide sun.

This is not a particularly well written little essay, but the kitchen sink is a calling me. I just wanted you to pause and think of Saint Martin tomorrow, bringing in the winter on his snow white horse, the first of several horses who appear throughout the Yuletide season.

Lumen Solis

There is a particular form of carol which uses a phrase in Latin with the majority of the lyrics in English. In my group we've been improvising chants. This humorous one came to me when the cat chose to stay in the room, enjoying a pool of sunlight on the floor.

Lumen Solis
Cat in the sun
In perfect peace
To which I aspire

Of course, inevitably, it turns in to purrfect peace. 


Today I saw horses dancing in the wind. Two beautiful work horses gamboling like a yin and a yang, sharing a moment of joy as we chanted.  We stopped to watch them—there was no other word to describe their joyful movements but dance. Lung Ta—Tibetan prayer flags— are called Wind Horses. They carry our prayers on the wind. This was the first time I'd ever seen flesh and blood wind horses.

Wynter Falleth Indeed!

Winter falleth indeed. We woke today to the sound of ice and hail and the ground covered in ice. 
There's an old weather prognostication that I am fond of:

If there's ice in November

That will bear a duck

Nothing will follow

But slush and muck

The Germans say that "Saint Martin comes riding the white horse" meaning that snow is coming.

It is the day of Martinmasse 
Cuppes of ale should freelie pass; 
What though Wynter  has begunne 
To push downe the Summer sonne, 
To our fire we can betake, 
And enjoye the crackling brake, 
Never heeding Wynter’s face 
On the day of Martilmasse.

—from an old English ballad 

Winterfylleth

On Saint Martins 

The Oak leaves fall

And Winter falleth upon us all

Into the winter

Into the night

We carry our lanterns

We bear the light

Light, light, light, light

We carry our lanterns

We bear the light

© 2010 all rights reserved

Saint Martin

     It has come to my attention that I should say something about Saint Martins Day.
     Martinmas falls on November 11. Long ago, when the year was divided in to two halves—summer and winter—Martinmas marked the first day of Winter.
     Martin was the son of an officer in the Roman army. Sons of veterans were compelled to serve in the military, so Martin became a cavalry soldier—in other words he rode a horse. He was a mystic who tried to maintain a monastic inner life in the secular world of the Roman army. In fairness, this wasn't as hard as it might have been since he was assigned to ceremonial duty "protecting" the emperor with a non-combat unit.
     One bitter cold winter's day, dressed in full military regalia, he rode through the city gates at Amiens in Gaul with the rest of his unit. Their uniform was topped off by an elegant and very ample white lambs wool cloak. Just outside the gates, they encountered a beggar, barely clothed and shivering with cold. The other soldiers rode past the poor man, but Martin slashed his cloak in two and gave half to the beggar. That night Martin had a vision of Christ, wearing the white cloak Martin had given to the beggar.
     The first day of Winter, November 11, is still celebrated in some parts of Europe with a procession of lanterns, led by a man dressed as Saint Martin, mounted on a white horse. In this picture Saint Martin is depicted with Saint Nicholas, who is identified by his crozier.

Wynter Fylleth

On Saint Martins the oak leaves fall
And Winter Fylleth upon us all
So fly away, fly away, fly away all
To await the suns return.


Ready or not, this afternoon we enter the advent season. But do not despair because you are not ready for this early darkness—not being ready is the hallmark of the season of preparation. The point is to get ready.


In the Orthodox Church, the advent season is a full 40 days—an adequate time to prepare for the birth and rebirth of light. Christians pared it down to 4 weeks—a foolish choice. In the world of nature, which is the world I concern myself with, our journey in to darkness and back to light begins on the first day of standard time when we are abruptly, like Alice down the rabbit hole, plunged in to darkness. 


But isn't that how it always happens—a plunge in to darkness? Abruptly? 

Lammas

Lammas

Bright blessings fall,

like rain on dark fertile earth,

like stars on an August night,

like apples, ripe and ready, from the orchard.

Good luck,

good fortune,

good karma,

bright and particular,

gather it in

as it comes to you.

Seed to wheat,

wheat to mill,

mill to bread,

bread to hearth,

hearth to belly,

belly to heart,

heart to god.

 

I wish for us all, 

that we are in the right place,

at the right time,

on the right path,

and that our bread lands ever butter side up.

Lughnasadh

In Ireland July is Hungry Month

Lughgnasadh

With last years harvest near run out, 

and this years harvest not yet in,

we stand,

betwixt and between.

The field is full, 

yet the cauldron is empty.

And on the final day,

of summer's wait,

stomachs empty,

but hearts full,

we climb the highest mountain

to look out at the fields.

The earth is full and beautiful,

her newborn resting on her belly

still connected for one final day

before the scythe severs the cord

to this year's bounty.

Golden wheat,

beneath a golden sun,

the child in the field

mirrors the radiance

of the father's crown.

© Claudia Chapman all rights reserved

A Klezmer Mummer's Play. Go Figure...

A Mummer's Play

Written by Jacob Bloom

Originally performed by Banbury Cross Morris

Portions of this play were taken from the traditional Ampleforth Sword Play. Permission to perform is granted, provided credit is given. If you do perform it, please send me a message and let me know.

ROOM:      Make room! Make room! Clear away from my broom! We need gallons, bucketfuls, oceans of room! Clear your feet out of the way and give us room to do our play. We'll make the winter go away. Now here comes one you'll be glad to see Though he's not as nice to look at as me. He's strong of arm, and stout of heart, Weak of brain, and not too smart. Come in now, Fool, and say your part.

FOOL:      In comes I, the simple fool. I always earned straight A's in school. My brain muscles were big and strong Til I sprained them playing Donkey Kong. Now I'm a fool, as you can see. Pray tell me now, how do you like me? Although I'm just a simple fool with brave Saint George I'll fight a duel to help drive the old year away and bring a happy New Year's Day

NEW YEARS:      In comes I, Happy New Years Day. In the winter's snow, I let you play And then the flowers of the spring And the summer's happy times I bring. And don't forget the leaves of fall. A whole year's joys, I bring them all. But before I come, the old year must die. Then I can rise, like the sun in the sky. Oh, where will we find a hero brave To die like the old year, so a new year we'll have?

ST. GEORGE:      I am Saint George, the hero bold. In rhyme and song my deeds are told. I killed the dreaded Turkish Knight And beat the dragon, in a six round fight. Giants have fallen to my strong arm And I've never received the slightest harm. I'm a champion of the highest degree. Does anyone here dare challenge me?

FOOL:      I challenge you, O hero of fame. I'll fight with you, Saint whats-your-name. You say you're a hero of highest degree. Nyah-nyah, nyah-nyah, can't scare me!

ST. GEORGE:      You braying ass! I'll run you through. With my great sword I'll cut you in two!

(They fight. Saint George runs, then curls up in a ball. The Fool trips over him. All proclaim Saint George the winner and hero.)

ST. GEORGE:      As night must die for there to be morn I must now die for a new year to be born. Like axe-men round an old oak tree Dance men, the sword dance now for me.

(Sword dance is performed. Swords are pulled out from lock around Saint George's neck, and he falls down dead.)

FATHER:      Hullo! What have we here? I think I see a clue. My son! He's dead, I fear. Who did it? Was it you?

ROOM:      I'm sure it's none of I That did this bloody act; It's he that follows me That did it, for a fact.

FOOL:      I'm sure it's none of I That did this awful crime. It's he that follows me That drew his sword so fine.

NEW YEARS:      Don't lay the blame on me You awful villains all; I'm sure my eyes were shut When this young man did fall.

DOCTOR:      How could your eyes be shut When I was looking on? I'm sure that you were with us When first our swords were drawn.

PARSON:      Now all of you, be still! We must bury him today, And lay his body down. Get on your knees and pray!

(Parson stands at head of body, others kneel next to it with hands folded. The following song is sung to the tune of the Funeral March.)

PARSON:      There was a farmer had a dog

ALL:      B, I, N, G, O

PARSON:      Old MacDonald had a farm

ALL:      E, I, E, I, O

PARSON:      Should auld acquaintance be forgot?

ALL:      I think it should, but maybe not

PARSON:      I am so happy

ALL:      I'm overwhelmed with joy.

FATHER:      We can't bury him like this When people all around us stand. We'll all be hung for murderers. For a doctor we must send!

(All call for a doctor. "Doctor!" "Is there a doctor in the house?")

FATHER:      Five bucks for a doctor!

DOCTOR:      What?

FATHER:      I said, five bucks for a doctor!

DOCTOR:      I'm a doctor.

FATHER:      How did you become a doctor?

DOCTOR:      I studied at Harvard.

FATHER:      What did you learn?

DOCTOR:      Which way to go on the Red Line.

FATHER:      Is that all you know?

DOCTOR:      Certainly not! I know how to use the latest medical electronic equipment.

FATHER:      Such as what?

DOCTOR:      Nintendo games.

FATHER:      What diseases can you cure?

DOCTOR:      I can cure pneumonia, old monia, Measles, yousles, Chicken pox, rabbit pox, Viruses, vi-not-ruses, walruses, Broken bones, broken hearts, broken promises, Broken TV sets, and, the common cold.

FATHER:      This man has been dead seven minutes. Can you cure him?

DOCTOR:      I can cure anyone, living or dead.

(examines body)

I'll have to do a CAT scan. Meow, meow, meow, meow.

FATHER:      Did you learn anything?

DOCTOR:      He's sick as a dog.

FATHER:      Can you cure him?

DOCTOR:      He needs C. P. R.

FATHER:      What's that?

DOCTOR:      Chest Pushing Regurgitation.

(acts as if about to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, makes face at smell of body's breath, tries blowing at and shaking body's arm.)

FATHER:      Can you cure him?

DOCTOR:      He needs the latest, greatest, wonder drugs.

(sticks large pill in body's mouth. pill is spit into the air.)

FATHER:      Can you cure him?

DOCTOR:      I've tried everything known to modern science! But I suppose I could try some mystical mumbo-jumbo.

(does some mystical mumbo-jumbo. Saint George arises. Everybody cheers.)

ST. GEORGE:      And now our play is done.

ROOM:      We can no longer stay.

FOOL:      We wish you all good health.

NEW YEARS:      And a happy New Year's Day.

ALL:      HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Contact Jacob Bloom & A Klez Act

We provide dance calling, storytelling and music for your group or event. We take commissions for dances, music and songs for weddings and other special occasions. E-mail Jacob Bloom and A Klez Act at bloom@gis.net.

Moving On

Old Christmas is passed, and I too will be moving on.
Please come and visit me here:
http://thewintersolstice.blogspot.com/
I envision an old black and white movie where the calendar pages turn as I turn the page and write towards the Spring.

January 9

The stars called me to the window this morning

and bade me to begin anew.

The stars bade me to the window this morning

so I could hear the song

they sing the night long

as mortals dream.

Changing with the seasons

Changing with the light.

They sing the night long

and they sing it short again..

They sing to the mother who wakens for her child

The child still remembers and wakes to hear their song.

Januarius is the month of stars.

heralded in by the great star the three kings followed.

Of Yuletide slipping away

and Brigid's whisper

that she is on her way.

Wonderful Crowning of King and Queen

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zbOd79161bk&feature=related

Mumming in Newfoundland

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FzJW65XwKPY&feature=related

The Play

Fool:

Room! Room! Brave gallants all
Come give us room to rhyme

We’ve come to show activity

While it’s still Christmas time.

Beneath the stars on this 12th Night

We’ll bring to life the age old fight

A hero will battle with all his might

To defeat the darkness and set things right.

Come forth Saint George!

Don’t be so proud!

Address yourself to this fine crowd.

Saint George: 

In comes I, Saint George,

a man of courage bold.

With my broad axe and my broad sword,

I’ve won three crowns of gold.

Father Christmas:

In comes I, old Father Christmas,

welcome or welcome not.

I hope old Father Christmas

will never be forgot.

Christmas comes but once a year

And when it does, it brings good cheer.

Twelve nights of roast beef, strong ale and mince pie.

Does anyone like that any better than I?

Even at my advanced age of two thousand and ten.

Christmas Tree:

This country’s gotten so P.C.

I’m told I can’t say “Christmas Tree.”

So, in comes I,

the tree that dare not say its name.

At Saturnalia in ancient Rome,

they welcomed me in to their home.

After the Romans took a fall

I decked the merry Yuletide hall.

Artificial, live or balled,

it matters not what I am called.

Ever green am I!

I raise my branches to the sky!

Saint George:

Good morrow sire

Father Christmas:

Good Morrow Son.

Our long year’s work

is nearly done.

Dark Knight:

In comes I the old Dark Knight.

I’ll give Old Saint George a fright.

I’ll split his skull and break his bone.

Then I’ll steal his cellular phone.

(Marches up to George and taps his shoulder)

I’ll Pinch your cheeks.

I’ll box your ears.

With my rapier wit

I’ll reduce you to tears.

Saint George:

Oh please, I’m English, do remember.

With my sharp tongue, foes I dismember.

I look down my nose.

I thrust out my chin.

My tsk, tsk, tsk will do you in.

A Battle ensues. Saint George falls.

Father Christmas:

Oh, Dark Knight, what have you done?

Robbed the life of this my son,

Whose life had only just begun,

Now set too soon, like the winter sun.

A doctor! 

A doctor must be found! (pronounce so it rhymes with wound)

To save him from this grievous wound.

A doctor could save one, this I'll wager

I'll try to beep one on his pager.

(Take out cell phone and dial. Speak in to the cell phone as if you are speaking to a doctor.)

Yes! I paged you on your beeper!

Please come at once to raise this sleeper!

The Doctor:

In comes I, the doctor

The best you’ve ever seen.

I can put the lead back in your pencil

and the jump in the jumping bean.

I have snake oil, brake oil,

Hot Jalapeno and extra strength Tylenol.

My remedies all taste delicious.

Oh come now, don’t look so suspicious,

I can cure the worst affliction—

PMS, caffeine addiction,

male pattern baldness, or hidden rashes

but I draw the line at stock market crashes.

If there’s nine demons in I’ll fetch ten out. 

I’ll make this sleeper rise and shout!

They say THIS works on the internet!

(Administer remedy. It doesn't work)

Father Christmas: 

Enough with all the New Age hoaxes

Just give me a diagnosis!

Doctor: Dead as a doornail.

Doctor:

Green in winter when all lies dead,

come, lay your branches at his head.

Water of life, pray be forgiving.

Bring this one back to the living.

Doctor:

He lives again, neither dead nor ill

The time has come to pay my bill

Father Christmas:

I’ll file this with the new health care

They’ll pay at once what they think fair.

Tree:

They’ll be sad when they discover.

Resurrection isn’t covered. 

Saint George:

Now Christmas is past, 

Twelfth Night is the last. 

To the Old Year adieu, 

Great joy to the new.

Doctor:

So come Saint George, with all your ego,

our play is done, it’s time that we go.