A lot can happen in a year...
This time, last year, I found myself contemplating the awesome responsibility of being a faerie godmother (and incidentally, my dear faerie god-daughter Indigo was born happy and healthy on August 26th, 2011). This year, I hold my own bundle of joy in my arms.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Autumnal Reflections
I do so love the fall. The sweeping winds of September that are almost unnerving with their force, sending leaves skittering along the ground and flying wildly through the air, wedging themselves in impromptu places that joyfully embrace them. Some will not fail to find their way to me, and catch my heart in some nostalgic way that leads me to bring them inside and press them within the pages of some beloved book.
The yellows, reds, and oranges of the leaves send up a flare of fiery colour in the forest's readiness to sleep soundly after a long and hectic summer of growth. Rest is coming, and with it the rejuvenation of a nature spirit satisfied and happily spent. The firs ready themselves for the weight of the snow that will surely come with the peace and the quiet of the soft winter. Some birds prepare for their great journey, while other, more faithful birds fatten themselves up on autumn's fruit, stashing seeds from the feeder here and there in secrecy. Down from seedpods are collected and used to ready the summer nest for the cold of winter, even as their own down is beginning to grow on their breasts.
Critters settle into their dens, readying themselves for the season of less; of weary browns replacing the spent vibrancy of greens, of the white white world that is to come.
I pull out my warmer blankets, happily put away but just as happily returned like an old friend I'd forgotten that I missed. Sweaters that hug and chase away the bite of unaccustomed cold; old companions that grant me a few more weeks of writing outside before my fingers grow too stiff with cold.
The garden begins to fade away and the harvest is gathered. Happy bobbing flowers are replaced by seedpods and a promise for next spring when we are ready to be together again. Bright red fruits toss about like a tickled tot, clinging to their branches and not quite willing to take their tumble yet. Rosehips are collected for winter colds and spicy teas on winter nights.
Yet those nights are still to come. For now the fleeting fall has only just begun, winds with their bluster and changing leaves that will soon fill the air and our footsteps with the crackle and spicy scent of an autumn that too swiftly ends.
The yellows, reds, and oranges of the leaves send up a flare of fiery colour in the forest's readiness to sleep soundly after a long and hectic summer of growth. Rest is coming, and with it the rejuvenation of a nature spirit satisfied and happily spent. The firs ready themselves for the weight of the snow that will surely come with the peace and the quiet of the soft winter. Some birds prepare for their great journey, while other, more faithful birds fatten themselves up on autumn's fruit, stashing seeds from the feeder here and there in secrecy. Down from seedpods are collected and used to ready the summer nest for the cold of winter, even as their own down is beginning to grow on their breasts.
Critters settle into their dens, readying themselves for the season of less; of weary browns replacing the spent vibrancy of greens, of the white white world that is to come.
I pull out my warmer blankets, happily put away but just as happily returned like an old friend I'd forgotten that I missed. Sweaters that hug and chase away the bite of unaccustomed cold; old companions that grant me a few more weeks of writing outside before my fingers grow too stiff with cold.
The garden begins to fade away and the harvest is gathered. Happy bobbing flowers are replaced by seedpods and a promise for next spring when we are ready to be together again. Bright red fruits toss about like a tickled tot, clinging to their branches and not quite willing to take their tumble yet. Rosehips are collected for winter colds and spicy teas on winter nights.
Yet those nights are still to come. For now the fleeting fall has only just begun, winds with their bluster and changing leaves that will soon fill the air and our footsteps with the crackle and spicy scent of an autumn that too swiftly ends.
Monday, March 28, 2011
on being a faerie god mother
Much-loved friends of mine have cordially requested that I become their new baby's faerie god mother. As I am already "Aunt Jenn" to four wonderful kids, I do not take my duties lightly. Aunting is a wonderful task to accomplish. The first great benefit is the hugs. The second is playing with children; there is nothing quite so satisfying as shedding the adult years and playing with abandon. The third benefit is the books; for as an aunt it is my responsibility to read the books I send them beforehand, just to make sure the writing is as delicious as they deserve.
Faerie god mothering isn't aunting, though, and that does give me a few nervous butterflies. I don't remember knowing how to be an aunt when my brother's first child was born, and it did come easily. Faerie god mothering is different, though, as an aunt the child shares your blood; there's a good chance of a lot of qualities in common. The faerie god child is a child that, through great affection, is grafted onto your family tree to be beloved without those guarantees. I have aunts of my own, and they offered up role models for my aunting pursuits. I have no faerie god mother (or do I?). I don't even know any faerie god mothers. So how exactly does one be a proper faerie god mother?
If you're thinking 'well glass slippers and bibbidi bobbidi boos, of course' then I have considered this. I suspect that this particular element of faerie god mothering will be amiss should the little one be a boy, and glass slippers seem rather dangerous for a small girl. We must also consider the decided lack of originality therein. I'd love to offer up three wishes, but I'd hate to disappoint if they are beyond my grasp to fulfill. No, there is no clear route to proper faerie god mothering.
I am quite studiously working on it. I have consulted faerie tales, my copy of An Encyclopedia of Fairies (Katharine Briggs), Peter Pan (J. M. Barrie), and even my own writings. This is what I have come up with so far:
Aunt Jenn's Notes on How to be a Faerie God Mother
1. most certainly, definitely, a faerie god mother must bring a bit of magic to the faerie god child's life. This particular brand of magic will depend upon the needs of the faerie god child, and the abilities of the faerie god mother herself.
2. the faerie god mother should bring fantasy to life (I have already uncovered plans for a DIY pirate ship should I need it).
3. The most important responsibility the faerie god mother has to the faerie god child is to the cultivation of their imagination. This is not a responsibility to be taken lightly; it is a vital part of the faerie god child's early education. A carefully tended imagination has the potential to change the world.
...
This is what I have determined thus far. I suspect there will be more clues I pick up along the way. My faerie god child is due to enter this world at the end of summer/beginning of autumn; I have some time just yet. Perhaps I might even come across another faerie god mother along the way!
Faerie god mothering isn't aunting, though, and that does give me a few nervous butterflies. I don't remember knowing how to be an aunt when my brother's first child was born, and it did come easily. Faerie god mothering is different, though, as an aunt the child shares your blood; there's a good chance of a lot of qualities in common. The faerie god child is a child that, through great affection, is grafted onto your family tree to be beloved without those guarantees. I have aunts of my own, and they offered up role models for my aunting pursuits. I have no faerie god mother (or do I?). I don't even know any faerie god mothers. So how exactly does one be a proper faerie god mother?
If you're thinking 'well glass slippers and bibbidi bobbidi boos, of course' then I have considered this. I suspect that this particular element of faerie god mothering will be amiss should the little one be a boy, and glass slippers seem rather dangerous for a small girl. We must also consider the decided lack of originality therein. I'd love to offer up three wishes, but I'd hate to disappoint if they are beyond my grasp to fulfill. No, there is no clear route to proper faerie god mothering.
I am quite studiously working on it. I have consulted faerie tales, my copy of An Encyclopedia of Fairies (Katharine Briggs), Peter Pan (J. M. Barrie), and even my own writings. This is what I have come up with so far:
Aunt Jenn's Notes on How to be a Faerie God Mother
1. most certainly, definitely, a faerie god mother must bring a bit of magic to the faerie god child's life. This particular brand of magic will depend upon the needs of the faerie god child, and the abilities of the faerie god mother herself.
2. the faerie god mother should bring fantasy to life (I have already uncovered plans for a DIY pirate ship should I need it).
3. The most important responsibility the faerie god mother has to the faerie god child is to the cultivation of their imagination. This is not a responsibility to be taken lightly; it is a vital part of the faerie god child's early education. A carefully tended imagination has the potential to change the world.
...
This is what I have determined thus far. I suspect there will be more clues I pick up along the way. My faerie god child is due to enter this world at the end of summer/beginning of autumn; I have some time just yet. Perhaps I might even come across another faerie god mother along the way!
Monday, March 14, 2011
upside down metaphors and backward similes
I am noticing these metaphors more and more in my contemporary reading adventures. They hurt something inside of me that grew as I grew, with nature first and human technology somewhere far behind. These painful similes and metaphors glare out from the printed page, maliciously daring me to read them; the sound of rain like a badly tuned radio, trees so tall they liken a skyscraper. Backwards, sideways, and all mixed up. How could we have so forgotten where we came from?
Rain was the prelude to music; it was our first lullaby, with promises tucked away of a songbird joyfully trilling in the sweet morning rain. A welcome rain, pitter-pattering softly on the gentle leaves of an aged maple. We bore music out of our affection for it. Music which much, much later gave rise to the radio, even the cacophony of radio static, yet never have I heard a rain that sounded with the shattering discord of a badly tuned radio.
Trees have always been the silent and mysterious beings that devote their lives to reaching for the sun. They have taught us the joys of sudden vistas as we climbed within their boughs. We incorporated these joys into our homes and our windows as our species rose. A tree is meandering, flowing, and ever dynamic. A building has become a static block of hard angles to keep at bay the very animals that make their homes within the trees. Aye, the tree is a world apart from a building, and a building has moved far beyond the likeness of a tree.
When did the writers of the realm begin this shift whereupon the wild is comprehended by comparison to technology and civilization? It seems so sad a case for our collective imagination.
Rain was the prelude to music; it was our first lullaby, with promises tucked away of a songbird joyfully trilling in the sweet morning rain. A welcome rain, pitter-pattering softly on the gentle leaves of an aged maple. We bore music out of our affection for it. Music which much, much later gave rise to the radio, even the cacophony of radio static, yet never have I heard a rain that sounded with the shattering discord of a badly tuned radio.
Trees have always been the silent and mysterious beings that devote their lives to reaching for the sun. They have taught us the joys of sudden vistas as we climbed within their boughs. We incorporated these joys into our homes and our windows as our species rose. A tree is meandering, flowing, and ever dynamic. A building has become a static block of hard angles to keep at bay the very animals that make their homes within the trees. Aye, the tree is a world apart from a building, and a building has moved far beyond the likeness of a tree.
When did the writers of the realm begin this shift whereupon the wild is comprehended by comparison to technology and civilization? It seems so sad a case for our collective imagination.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Images of Grief
When I hear the word 'grief' my mind immediately leaps to that image of her. She sat alone on a bench, her uneaten sandwich laying forgotten by her side. Her eyes, oblivious to the full summer beauty that surrounded her, were fixed, unseeing, on the horizon. There was nothing but sadness in her expression - she missed him. No anger, no betrayal, no regret, and no blame. Just grief.
Her husband had died not even a month ago; too young, too sudden, too terrible to contemplate. I knew her to see her. We smiled to each other often on better days. I wanted to offer her my sympathy, but I held back. There is something too crass about a relative stranger offering sympathy for a lost life they never knew. Something too crass about the tragic public figure we are all made to become when a loved one dies. First the loss, then the immediate frenzy of arrangements and the flooding of mourners gazing upon our most intimate of sorrows. Then it is over, the survivors cruelly launched into the world again; forced to realize that life must somehow continue.
Such a loss, raking an indelible divide across the landscape of a life. Yet, she sat there so sadly and with such strength. She wasn't angry; she wasn't begging for it all to change or waiting for a rescue that would never come. She simply accepted her lot. For that I believe her sadness was the purest thing I'd ever witnessed, and the most meaningful image of grief that I will ever hold.
Her husband had died not even a month ago; too young, too sudden, too terrible to contemplate. I knew her to see her. We smiled to each other often on better days. I wanted to offer her my sympathy, but I held back. There is something too crass about a relative stranger offering sympathy for a lost life they never knew. Something too crass about the tragic public figure we are all made to become when a loved one dies. First the loss, then the immediate frenzy of arrangements and the flooding of mourners gazing upon our most intimate of sorrows. Then it is over, the survivors cruelly launched into the world again; forced to realize that life must somehow continue.
Such a loss, raking an indelible divide across the landscape of a life. Yet, she sat there so sadly and with such strength. She wasn't angry; she wasn't begging for it all to change or waiting for a rescue that would never come. She simply accepted her lot. For that I believe her sadness was the purest thing I'd ever witnessed, and the most meaningful image of grief that I will ever hold.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Spook, the Greaser Cat
The woman gazed thoughtfully at her one year old male cat. They'd named him Spook because he was frightened of the wind. He'd soon sought revenge for their laughter by hiding around corners and pouncing on their feet. His attitude was undeniably grim, and he was beginning to look...well, like a 50's greaser. As if he was channeling James Dean. Everything that keeps mothers awake at night.
She turned on the water to fill the tub while Spook danced about the kitchen, chasing unseen creatures. No doubt about it, he was drunk again. The woman had had cats all her life, but she'd never had to deal with a greaser cat before. Her mother had warned her about those rebellious males. "Get them neutered right away," she'd always say. The woman never wanted to do that to the little fella, though. He'd keep it in his pants, wouldn't he? "He doesn't even bother to wear pants," her husband pointed out.
She let her hand trail listlessly in the bathwater. She knew Spook kept a leather jacket in the garden shed - she'd noticed it the other day while she was searching for her trowel. What bothered her the most was the keys in the pockets. The lady sighed, there was no denying it anymore, Spook was definitely a greaser, and he was getting into trouble.
It wasn't the fashion that bothered her; it was the way he came home stinking of exhaust fumes, gasoline, and cigarettes. The newspapers were riddled with stories of the recent rash of truck thefts. Yes, trucks. Always black pickups, which she knew Spook had a special affinity for.
He had also joined a band, every night she could hear him caterwauling with his cronies at the hockey rink. She didn't have the heart to tell him that he wasn't any good. What kind of mother discourages her child's creative expression?
But car theft? It would only be a matter of time now before he was impregnating some minor. Who could resist such a cuddly kitty? A tear ran swiftly down her cheek - she certainly couldn't.
She placed Spook in the bathwater despite his vast repertoire of curses and complaints, and gently washed the brillo cream from his fur. Later that day she'd donate his jacket to goodwill. "Tomorrow, young man," she told him, "you are getting neutered."
Spook never made it to the vet. He couldn't handle losing what he valued most. That night he stole his last truck, bought a 2-4 of his favourite beer, and drove straight into the dog pound. His body was never found.
She turned on the water to fill the tub while Spook danced about the kitchen, chasing unseen creatures. No doubt about it, he was drunk again. The woman had had cats all her life, but she'd never had to deal with a greaser cat before. Her mother had warned her about those rebellious males. "Get them neutered right away," she'd always say. The woman never wanted to do that to the little fella, though. He'd keep it in his pants, wouldn't he? "He doesn't even bother to wear pants," her husband pointed out.
She let her hand trail listlessly in the bathwater. She knew Spook kept a leather jacket in the garden shed - she'd noticed it the other day while she was searching for her trowel. What bothered her the most was the keys in the pockets. The lady sighed, there was no denying it anymore, Spook was definitely a greaser, and he was getting into trouble.
It wasn't the fashion that bothered her; it was the way he came home stinking of exhaust fumes, gasoline, and cigarettes. The newspapers were riddled with stories of the recent rash of truck thefts. Yes, trucks. Always black pickups, which she knew Spook had a special affinity for.
He had also joined a band, every night she could hear him caterwauling with his cronies at the hockey rink. She didn't have the heart to tell him that he wasn't any good. What kind of mother discourages her child's creative expression?
But car theft? It would only be a matter of time now before he was impregnating some minor. Who could resist such a cuddly kitty? A tear ran swiftly down her cheek - she certainly couldn't.
She placed Spook in the bathwater despite his vast repertoire of curses and complaints, and gently washed the brillo cream from his fur. Later that day she'd donate his jacket to goodwill. "Tomorrow, young man," she told him, "you are getting neutered."
Spook never made it to the vet. He couldn't handle losing what he valued most. That night he stole his last truck, bought a 2-4 of his favourite beer, and drove straight into the dog pound. His body was never found.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
one day
Imagine with me, if you will, this one day that I dream of...
Waking up to a sun flecked morning, the air once again filled with the heady spice of stranded kelpy and balsam fir pitch. The sun beckons me out of my old bed early through the dormer windows, the kitties meowing about my feet as I stumble about to make coffee. I drink my coffee on the tiny front porch, the wind swishing about the trees by our little cabin nestled in the Sussex hillside. Our only neighbour the forest, stretching on and on with whispered invitations to explore, to know, to love, each and every tree.
Winnie, my gypsy cob, knickers at me from her corral, for she is eager for her breakfast too. As I bring her a pail of grain and some hay, her beauty catches my breath. Her long, white mane flowing gustily in the breeze, the long hair about her feet dancing about as she steps around to greet me with a gentle nuzzle into my neck. I reach up to scratch her neck and she eyes me with that look. That look that says, "this is a morning for riding."
I glance up to our bedroom window; Mike would be sleeping for a few hours yet. When Winnie had had her fill, I carry out the tack and saddle her. Her excitement builds as I mount her and we wind our way down quiet dirt lane that leads both away and home again with unerring faithfulness.
The morning is fresh, promising a hot day, but for now the dew is not yet dry and shivers hide in the shadows. The chickadees frolic in the trees above us and they, like me, must wonder what faerie tale they've wandered into.
We arrive at our destination, the natural amphitheatre, in good time, the happy friendly birds still with us and their joyous song echoing off the green vestured walls and mingling with the music of the trickling water. Lush ferns and grasses live and flourish upon the steep slopes rising up from our tiny trail and the brook beneath us. I let Winnie graze there as I sit upon a large stone and attempt once more to write out the beauty that surrounds me. She teasingly nuzzles my notebook but sees that I am deep into my thoughts and moves off.
I watch her leave, this gypsy cob that surely must have descended from the unicorns, home at last in this natural faerie realm and watched over by the faerie folk that inhabit this valley. The water sprites whisper in the music of the brook, and tiny elves peek out from behind the rocks and ferns. A wood nymph eyes Winnie closely as she gently nibbles at some clover beneath his tree, but with deep reverence, she is careful not to harm the old aspen, and the wood nymph sighs with relief.
All too soon the sun gets higher and hotter, and I've no mind for Winnie to have a rider in the heat of the day. As we ride back home again I tell her stories of the trees I've known, and the stories they have told me as she listens intently, plodding along at her own pace. When we reach our hill, I dismount and walked alongside her, still telling her the stories she seems to love to hear.
Gillie joyfully runs down the lane to meet us, meowing his welcomes, and both he and Winnie pause to sniff each other and receive the olfactory gossip we humans are not privy to. As we round the bend, our little log cabin comes into view and I see that Mike is awake and having his coffee now. He smiles at our oddball trio, his eyes full of love for us and happiness for his life.
That would be a great day.
Waking up to a sun flecked morning, the air once again filled with the heady spice of stranded kelpy and balsam fir pitch. The sun beckons me out of my old bed early through the dormer windows, the kitties meowing about my feet as I stumble about to make coffee. I drink my coffee on the tiny front porch, the wind swishing about the trees by our little cabin nestled in the Sussex hillside. Our only neighbour the forest, stretching on and on with whispered invitations to explore, to know, to love, each and every tree.
Winnie, my gypsy cob, knickers at me from her corral, for she is eager for her breakfast too. As I bring her a pail of grain and some hay, her beauty catches my breath. Her long, white mane flowing gustily in the breeze, the long hair about her feet dancing about as she steps around to greet me with a gentle nuzzle into my neck. I reach up to scratch her neck and she eyes me with that look. That look that says, "this is a morning for riding."
I glance up to our bedroom window; Mike would be sleeping for a few hours yet. When Winnie had had her fill, I carry out the tack and saddle her. Her excitement builds as I mount her and we wind our way down quiet dirt lane that leads both away and home again with unerring faithfulness.
The morning is fresh, promising a hot day, but for now the dew is not yet dry and shivers hide in the shadows. The chickadees frolic in the trees above us and they, like me, must wonder what faerie tale they've wandered into.
We arrive at our destination, the natural amphitheatre, in good time, the happy friendly birds still with us and their joyous song echoing off the green vestured walls and mingling with the music of the trickling water. Lush ferns and grasses live and flourish upon the steep slopes rising up from our tiny trail and the brook beneath us. I let Winnie graze there as I sit upon a large stone and attempt once more to write out the beauty that surrounds me. She teasingly nuzzles my notebook but sees that I am deep into my thoughts and moves off.
I watch her leave, this gypsy cob that surely must have descended from the unicorns, home at last in this natural faerie realm and watched over by the faerie folk that inhabit this valley. The water sprites whisper in the music of the brook, and tiny elves peek out from behind the rocks and ferns. A wood nymph eyes Winnie closely as she gently nibbles at some clover beneath his tree, but with deep reverence, she is careful not to harm the old aspen, and the wood nymph sighs with relief.
All too soon the sun gets higher and hotter, and I've no mind for Winnie to have a rider in the heat of the day. As we ride back home again I tell her stories of the trees I've known, and the stories they have told me as she listens intently, plodding along at her own pace. When we reach our hill, I dismount and walked alongside her, still telling her the stories she seems to love to hear.
Gillie joyfully runs down the lane to meet us, meowing his welcomes, and both he and Winnie pause to sniff each other and receive the olfactory gossip we humans are not privy to. As we round the bend, our little log cabin comes into view and I see that Mike is awake and having his coffee now. He smiles at our oddball trio, his eyes full of love for us and happiness for his life.
That would be a great day.
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