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.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
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.
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