The Spirit is Gone

So much time spent

growing a garden...

planting, sowing, weeding...

a flowering flirtation.

One patch of beauty

was all I hoped for,

a mall store facet is all I got.

The gardener realized

the greatest dream...

that she and the  plot were one.

It thickened,

 a tiller was born,

as she waited

for the blossom of ode,

one ditty of beauty...

it came.

Trumpeting jonquils,

in the ever planned  diamond of hope.

The meme wheel is turning

towards the harvest of a year.

The question is asked,

Which winter lips?

The answer: Tulips,

in the Spring of your future.

Wax on, John Done.

 

Working It From the Outside In

I've always been a fan of exercise as a means of perking up the mood, or keeping the weight in check. I walk, dance, or clean house several times a week. If the weather permits, I will don my spandex and go for a nice long bike ride around town. But lately, my new exercise of choice is Pilates. I have a tape of it, and the leader, Maria Leone, is a real pro and a real person. I like the fact that she doesn't promise the impossible, like sculpting the body, or rapid weight loss... I know this is unachievable in a 40 minute span, done two or three times a week. The only claim she gives is that the workout will "increase your core strength and with improved posture will make you look and feel better about your body." Hurray, it's not a false or glamorous claim. Any women knows the weight trick of advertising, where the woman stands in a hunched and frumpy position, bulged gut to the camera, and looking forlorn. The weight loss claim, then shows the same woman in a semi-side view pose, in a two piece, sucking in her gut, with make-up, hair-do and a big smile. Were you ever fooled by such nonsense? I didn't think so. I taught aerobics classes in my twenties, and I can assure you that six pack abs come from doing 3 one hour classes five days a week, with practice on the weekends. But this video with it's honesty, and small, fit, but unglamorous woman, gives me incentive to work out. She has been my on again- off again partner for years now, and I have learned all her moves. So, now a new height in work-out occurs as I insert the tape, place my blanket on the floor, close my eyes, and  just follow the commands. I am actually meditating (aka thinking of nothing), as I go through the movement. Sure, there are points where my body starts complaining ( I hate the leg circles), but I know the routine by heart and I know it will be over soon enough. There are no stray thoughts to distract me as I focus on tightening, sucking in, and keeping shoulders down. The mind is blank, and once completed I feel at peace, and proud of myself. Though I have the best intentions, I usually only complete the workout twice a week, but throughout the long dreary winter, I have been that vigilant. Today, I saw my two bottom ribs for the first time in a long time, and while this is probably only two mini bottles of a 12 pack, I am pumped that it occurred at all. The mental quiet is so much more of a reward.    

An Auditory Walk

It's February, and cabin fever is setting in big time. Though the sun is shining , it's only 37 degrees and with the wind at 7 MPH, it feels more like 31 degrees. I had enough of the dull, winter landscape, and so I decided to go out for walk and instead of visually noticing anything, I would tune into sound for a change. As I walked down the sidewalk in my sneakered feet, I could hear the rhythm of my own gait. As I listened , I realized that my right foot is slightly louder than the left, making the steps sound like a heartbeat. In the distance, I heard the occasional faint tweet of a bird, and one mourning dove who sang a lonely coo. I could hear my own jaw as I chewed on gum, and in a small burst of wind, there was a tinkling wind chime that caught my attention. As I came up the street to a house where construction was in progress, I heard a loud tapping sound that was interrupted by a loud, man's voice. He was shouting a story about a jealous husband and a shotgun, and I hoped it was a joke he was telling. As I rounded the corner, the wind caught a pine tree and provided a gentle whooshing sound, while a dry crumpled leaf scratched it's way behind me. In a period of brief silence, I could hear the traffic of the highway in the far distance, and it almost sounded like the ocean. A dull clanking was heard, as a flag cord hit against a flagpole. Across town a train whistle sounded, and was drowned out by an overhead plane that roared, and then moaned away. Occasionally a car rolled by in crescendo and passed in decrescendo. I could tell the trucks by a roll and light rattle. The loudest of the vehicles, was the school bus, whose roar and grind had the added squeal of brakes, as it stopped short at the traffic light. It sounded like an elephant. Throughout the walk, wind chimes continued to rattle, tinkle and gong. My favorite sound was the dry leaves that still clung to the trees as the wind blew. Some trees sounded like rain, some like rattles, some like a slow burning fire. The smaller and more subtle of the leaf holding trees, sounded like whispers. I hoped their secret was that spring is almost here.

Swimming with Snarks

Over the weekend the tide shifted. Flood gates of repressed thought, came pouring out of my psyche and into my mind. For as long as I dare to remember, I was always trying hard to do the right thing, to say the right thing, by being good, and kind, and careful. Words were chosen wisely, so as not to offend, and yet, sometimes  when I least expected, I would miss the mark. An occasional outburst of feeling, lost me friends, family ties, and a  job. None of my strivings for acceptance, or my well intentioned action, seemed to matter. It was always a one shot indiscretion of the spoken word, that caused the rift. It was like poor Michel Phelps, who achieved an incredible goal, and then lost it all for a simple photo of him exploring his youth. I don't care what he did, it was normal for his age, for goodness sake! I still consider him a hero. Though I don't have a huge fan base, I decided this weekend to swim out of the mold and explore the dark waters of my repressed thoughts. Lo, and behold, the exploration released a deluge of short, testy or ill-temepered snide, otherwise known in british slang as "snarkey"comments, or simply put... snarks. Nothing was sacred, as the pen furiously wrote down the irreverent jibes. They were intended for no one in particular, as the attacks were general: nothing overtly religious, ethnic, or slanderous. I know I am no comedienne, as I crack up at my own comments, but with all the dour news about the economy, it was comic relief to be laughing so spontaneously. As hard as I work on my current blog entries, the average person seems to stay on the site a mere 23 seconds before they move on, and so I got an idea. Why not put my snarks to the Internet and just see if I can make others laugh as well? If not, no harm done, but if so, well, what better way to spread a little fun. So, in addition to my current blog, (which keeps me grounded), I have added another one under the pen name of Snarkey Barker (I'm a big fan of Dorothy Parker, whose quotes you can google). I warn you though, it is not pretty, it's not lady-like, and I make no apologies. Enjoy!

Here is the link:  http://snarkybarker.blogspot.com. 

Softening the Blow of a Fallen Friend

 

Yesterday, I set out on foot to the grocery store... with a song in my heart. No matter, that it was the dead of winter, cold, grey, and windy... I felt happy and at peace with the world. Then I came upon a sight that took my peace, and changed it to anger. As I rounded the corner of my neighborhood, there was a big tree service vehicle that had just felled my beloved friend, a majestic holly tree that stood a proud 25 feet in the air. It lay on it's side, amongst a scattering of delicate pointed leaves, and the lush red berries that were as beautiful as jewels to me. My heart ached, as I passed the sinister truck that boasted a decal of a skull, with the words written below, "Cold Hearted." As I passed the carnage, I put on my best scowl, and disgustedly shook my head. An old salt of a guy noticed my disdain, and feebly offered a good morning to me. If only for a minute, I acknowledged and returned the greeting, as two burly guys starting cutting off branches and throwing them into a chipper. I was saddened (and dumbfounded) that such a beautiful tree was being so carelessly mutilated. I continued my walk, feeling anger and sorrow, thinking of the injustice that had just been perpetrated. Suddenly, I noticed a piece of conglomerate that lay on the sidewalk staring at me with a pebble eye. I picked it up and noticed that the true eye of this faux stone lay below the pebble, and was looking at me with an eye of wisdom... "all is change it seemed to say," and so I put the treasure in my pocket.  Upon return from the grocery store, my eye caught a pice of bark that had fallen into the street. Since I notice everything around me as I walk, it struck me that there was a natural "carving " of a bird with a smiling face on the fallen bark. It was naturally etched and beautiful, and so again, I picked it up as a treasure.  It comforted me to know that my "treasures" would afford a great photo opportunity... to share the message, that although treasures are everywhere, life is change. And so, as I walked by the pile of mulch that lay where my friend, the Holly Tree, was recently murdered, I still felt a sense of loss... but one of acceptance as well.

Amusing Myself With Video

Today is dark, cold and, dreary... the perfect mix for the winter doldrums to set in. But I received a facebook message from my son, with a song that he thought I would like, and so my day started with the wonderful sound of new music... he was right, I loved the song and bought the album on iTunes. I decided that I would spend the day listening to music, and so I started picking out my favorite songs on the PC and either danced or sang. I was having a great time singing today, and so I got the bright idea to pretend that I was a real singer, performing in front of an audience. This thought has always terrified me, as I was once told by a music teacher that I only had a range of 3 good notes. So I went to the photobooth application on my mac, tuned in iTunes and proceeded to record myself singing. My first attempt was the Tommy Roe song, Dizzy, but I could not manage to get the first "Dizzy" sung correctly. I took many takes, mostly for stumbling over words. And then I decided to scrap the song, and went to another Tommy Roe song, called "Baby I Love You." I sat at the PC, nervously looked into the camera and thought of my husband to whom I have dedicated the song. Now, I know I'm not quite ready for karaoke yet, but it was fun to pretend that I was playing a piano and singing, even though it seems like a lot of hard work if you're going for perfection.  And so on this dreary old day in NJ, please indulge me as I debut my singing on video. It will probably be the last public performance of my voice.  

Doing Our Part for the Economy's Sake

This past Valentine's Day was spent in an unusual way for my husband and I. Never being ones for celebrating the Hallmark variety of holidays, we made an exception this year. I am more thrilled at the flowers that come home for no particular reason then the mandatory holiday bouquet, more pleased that my husband shares his poetry with me, than I am of receiving a trite store bought card. But this year, because the economy is in such trouble, we decided to break our non-tradition, and buy something together. Since I lost my job last March, I have only bought a few clothing necessities (usually from Costco) and have not been in a mall since my job loss. So when we decided to help the economy this Valentines Day, I had to think long and hard for something that was needed, but not necessarily necessary. It took guts, but I made a bold suggestion, "how about if you bought me some new underware ... not the utilitarian variety, but rather, something that would satisfy your visual sensibility." He thought about it a minute, and then agreed. I know this is not something men relish, but since there is some form of benefit here, we set off for the mall in search of my gift. I already knew that Victoria's Secret was off the list, as too much of their stuff is geared for the young and immature (not to mention, that the whole mall parade peeks in as you try to shop there). I chose Lord and Taylor, where the lingerie is close to the exit, and off the beaten mall track. I remained silent while my husband perused the department, pointing and picking bras and panties, without any regard for price. I held my breath, avoiding the flowered and paisley matching ensembles that usually caught my eye, and waited patiently as sheer, lacy, but elegant articles of intimacy were chosen. We were the only two people in the department, and the gregarious clerk chatted happily, while ringing up our generous purchases. I was so proud of my husband; for his good taste, his generosity, but most of all, for his patience in sharing the gift of time and purpose with me. This Valentines Day, I felt like the luckiest woman in the world!  

Second Time Around

Well, my buyer came for another visit today. Unbeknownst to me, he had been here before and already said he loved the house and would be back. That was a month ago, and so I thought it might have been an empty promise. It was new seasoned realtor who called, and so I didn't suspect it was the same guy, who already found it to be perfect. The realtor was a name I can remember from 'FOR  SALE' signs posted in the 60's, and he has been selling houses from the time I was born. Now if I suspected that this was the prospective buyer, I would have saved myself a lot of cleaning time. But maybe not, cause I really like to clean, as it gives me a sense of purpose. Floors were scrubbed, polished, and vacuumed, light bulbs changed, furniture was dusted and polished, cookies were baked, and poor old Otis was banished to his cage for most of the day. I can't have a rabbit who thinks he's a horse, (and my kitchen is his stable), roaming around amidst his strewn hay on the floor. If I knew it was this buyer who is selling a farm in Hunterdon County, I may have reconsidered his banishment. The buyer and his sister came to see the house, and we had a great visit. Her and I chatted for a good hour, while the realtor and her brother looked at my survey, and discussed his situation. Maybe cause I tend to get lonely, I was too busy chatting with a really nice woman who lived in my town, but grew up in a big city, that I didn't pay attention to the business conversation. I love hearing other people's histories, as everyone has a story to tell. We all sat around my dining room table, having our two separate conversations, one business, one social, and the afternoon flew by. James Taylor sang softly in the background, and my cookies and the aroma of fresh ground, fresh brewed coffee wafted from the kitchen. I had some spring scented candles burning, and the roaring of the 50 MPH winds just added to the coziness. The buyer's sister said she loved the attic room that used to host our kids friends for sleepovers, and also served as a bedroom for my nephew, once upon a time. I told her she could have it as her room if she bought the house, and we laughed together ( her, because it was a brother buying the house, and me because I didn't know that, and thought it was a wife inside joke). I sent my guests away with homemade chocolate chip cookies, and my female visitor hugged me and said she knew I would have a wonderful time touring America, because she could tell that I was a nice person and people would welcome me wherever I went. And you know, hard as it is for a modest person to admit, I believe her.

Signs of Spring

Today I awoke to the sunrise peeking through the shades of my bedroom windows. It was 7:00 AM, and late for me. My husband chided me for sleeping in, when such a nice warm day was in the works. He had already completed his early morning bike ride and was happily Scrabble-ing, as the weather person was announcing possible record highs for the coming day. This lifted my spirits immediately, as I sipped my morning coffee. Once fully awake, I ran upstairs (something unusual for me during the morning hours) and dressed for my first bike ride of the new year. Although a few patches of dirty snow were stubbornly scattered here and there, I could smell a fresh coolness in the air, but with no harsh chill. I straddled my bike and slowly rode down the block. My thighs began their muscular protest within minutes (I guess climbing two flights of stairs several times a day does not substitute for real exercise), but I forged on anyway. The sun was shining brilliantly and within 10 minutes I was sweating... guessing that I didn't really need the sweatshirt over the spandex top. The birds were all atwitter, the squirrels were in a playful chase, and my friends, the turkey buzzards, were riding gaily on the circular air currents. Then I heard the first call of the chickadee... a sure sign of Spring. I only did half of my usual ride, as I have learned from experience that new exercise needs to be introduced gradually, and I headed home. It was now over 50 degrees, and so I lingered outside and did a spontaneous yard clean, as part of the spring cleaning ritual. Once inside I opened several windows to welcome the sounds and smell of the coming season. Dusty houseplants were put outside, and I made my list to go shopping. Early in the week my son lent me his brand new Jeep... a standard shift manly hunk of a machine, and if I could have managed it, I would have pulled off the top and went for a windblown joy ride. No matter, instead I figured out where the power windows were, and barreled off to the gas station, bank and supermarket. With the wind whipping my hair, I blasted his alternative music radio station, enjoying the power. Nature is terrific, but after 7 months without a vehicle to drive, this sensation was heaven, and another way to enjoy the coming of Spring. Now that I'm home, I think I'll celebrate and crack a beer!

Judgement Day

Growing up in a working class world, the first financial lesson my dad taught me was simple 1). pay your bills and live within your means 2). put something away for a rainy day (he worked in construction, so it made sense to me 3) spend on things you need 4) help others 5) spend a little on enjoyment 6) don't rely on credit. I have always followed this simple advice, and now it seems to be paying off, in the hardest of times. I suspect most working class Americans received similar advice, and so in the wake of this terrible economic crises, the real trouble for the future will come to those who have sought to gain their money by unscrupulous means, investing in schemes of greed, racked up gambling debts, and continued terrorizing everyone else, as they watch the fruits of their deviousness go down the drain. These mighty lords and ladies of greed even got a second chance with the financial and bank bailouts, but did they change their ways and repent? No, they took the money from the coffers of the hardworking, and continued in their lavish lifestyles, with business as usual, thumb nosing at everyone and continuing their crimes of excess. They were so sure that their chosen God of White Wealth would prevail, using fear, and patriotism to intimidate the working class. The people were angered beyond belief, and finally woke up and did their own patriotic duty by voting for a young upstart, with brains and eloquence, humbleness and compassion. As the decline brought upon us by these greedy pillagers continues, the working class will do what they were taught to do, tighten their belts, stop the games of the money lenders by using cash, living hand to mouth for a while, and watching their rainy day funds, like a hawk, scrimping, but knowing they will survive. Meanwhile, as the high and mighty find their investments dwindling along with their Gucci lifestyles, the lords and ladies will bawl and cry foul, as bullies usually do. They will raise their voices to denigrate the upstart, lead by the lord of white wealth, and they will be exposed as to their true merit, like a drying worms on a sunny pavement. The hourglass is emptying, but is about to be turned upside down. The cheers will not be heard immediately, because like the new Leader, the working class is patient and cautious. These good Americans will prevail, and as do, they will lend a hand and help the poor and disenfranchised, as they learned their life lessons well, "therefore by the grace of the Divine go I." The high and mighty and their capital greed will fall, and it will be a crash and burn scenario. Many will die by their own hand, like cowards, who would rather be dead then humbled. Others will flee, and probably seek to set up their practices in other lands, forgetting that there is no one in the world who is ignorant to their games. They deserve to be marched into the barbarian lands that they warned us about, and let the fundamentalist chip fall where it may. Meanwhile, as the good citizens of the world, work and grow and prosper under their new code of understanding (if one of us falls, we all fall)  the New World will heal, and mend, and prosper again. 

Romantic Dinner for Two... I'll stay home.

I am a bit isolated these days, as I don't have a car, and most of my friends work. So when my husband suggests we go out for dinner, you can bet I get real excited to go out amongst people, and have a real date with my beloved spouse. However, two weeks ago, we decided to splurge a little, and instead of the usual pizza joint/ bar, we went to one of those upscale seafood chains for a romantic dinner. The food is usually good, and it's not the kind of place where you expect to be seated in the midst of a family with little kids. We entered the restaurant at 6PM, and a child hostess greeted us with a dry, "how many?" Obviously we were the only two, and the restaurant was near empty, but the bar was well attended. She dropped the menus and then hurriedly seated us at a table... right next to the kitchen. I'm not real fussy about most things, and I should have said no, but not wanting to be thought of as a crankypus, I accepted the undesirable table. As I expected, the kitchen door opened and shut frequently, as the college aged waitstaff flew in and out, probably not expecting the "earlybirds." We ordered our cocktails, and because the bar was hopping, it was a bit of a wait. Suddenly, as I began to have a quiet conversation with my husband, an entourage of the waitstaff congregated  against the wall in front of our table. As loud as a college sorority, the annoying chatter of personal happenings began. I learned instantly who was having a bad day, who thought who was a bitch, who wasn't coming in that day, who was hung over from the previous night.... it just continued ad nauseum. The waiter came over with the usual smugness and feigned enthusiasm that the place is known for, and announced the obvious," here is oil and freshly prepared pesto to go with your bread." I smiled, thinking, " thanks, Mr. Obvious, I bet you think we don't even know what the hell pesto is, us being FOPs and all." But I held my tongue. The appetizer and dinner came out quickly, the food was OK, except, I don't believe a tablespoon of soggy corn with a token dot of red pepper deserves a label of steamed vegetable. No matter, the fish was good, and we were only interrupted several times. The waiter felt the need to pour my wine from the carafe into my glass, and ask several times, "how is everything?" at the most inopportune time. "Patience", I thought,"the inexperienced kids are just trying to make a living." Dinner was over within the span of 20 minutes, with (I'm guessing) about an $80 pricetag. We got to have a real conversation at home. The following week, my husband asked if I wanted to go out for dinner, and since I know he does this for me, I said, "no let's just order a pizza for delivery." We had our cocktails as we waited, and the delivery person apologized for the wait, even though he came exactly when his phone person said he would. It was hot, delicious, and afforded us two great meals. For a little more than $20 (I like to tip the delivery guys well, as my son used to do this work in highschool) we had a nice romantic dinner, right in our own kitchen, by candlelight. There were no interruptions, great leftovers, and no rush. For my money, take-out at home is just a better idea. Maybe this week, it will be sushi!

When Lilacs Last in the Schoolroom Scorned

I have always enjoyed poetry from the time I was a child. My earliest earliest enjoyment in the world of rhyme, came from the joy I felt reading Dr. Seuss's book, "One Two Fish, Red Fish Blue Fish." On my weekly trips to the library, I always included a book of rhyme, the early choice of the poetic mind. I spent many summer afternoons under the lilac bushes at the local library, with my booty of books, and lost myself in the language of words. So, I felt fully confident, one day in the 12th grade when our teacher read a poem, which was Walt Whitman's "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed". After she read it, she asked the class what we thought the poem meant. I had never heard of the poet beforehand, but I was confident in my thoughts and I excitedly raised my hand in response. " I think, the poem is talking about lost innocence"... I announced to a circle of students. My teacher, cut me off, by saying, "No, Wendy, the poem is about the death of Abraham Lincoln." My confident voiced trailed off, as I watched the smug faces in the circle, glance at me, and then turn full attention to the teacher. No one else volunteered a meaning, and so she proceeded to explain the poem... in the black and white words of the all-knowing adult. Shamefaced, I looked down, and pretended to listen. How could I be so wrong when I felt so right. Later in the week, I retold my humiliating tale to my grandfather, who only had a high school equivalency, but was educated by the Jesuits in a monastery as a child. He allowed me to finish my explanation that the lilacs stood for something young and new... like spring, and the fact that they last bloomed, meant something was gone. He got a very intense look on his face and then in a low voice, said... "your teacher is not fit to teach, you have grasped a very important part of the poem." I felt vindicated, and then he gave me a reading assignment. "It is time you read the works of Shakespeare in earnest."  I  complied, knowing he would listen to my interpretation, even if the language was a bit out of my understanding. He restored in me the hope, that I could understand adult things, even though I had difficulty explaining them. At present, I am still writing and reading poetry... fortunate that I share this passion with the greatest of poets, my husband. He has taught me, much like my grandfather, that there are no absolutes in poetry. "Absolutes are better addressed in prose," he would say." Poetry is a language unto itself... a mystery, perhaps hinting at a truth that is inexpressible." Now, when I write, I no longer worry if my words make sense, or my meter is off. I have something to share, and in that, there is no right, or no wrong... only a nebulous score, for which the reader takes all.   

   

Synchronicity and The Hokey Pokey

I always have a good laugh to myself whenever I see the bumper sticker that reads "Maybe the Hokey Pokey is what it's all about." My first wedding was decades ago, when as a 19 year old bride, my plans to have a hippie-field wedding, in bare feet, in a field somewhere were squashed. They insisted that I have the tradition church wedding, followed by a reception for friends and family at the local Elks Lodge. My only say in the matter, was the ability to choose the band and give a playlist of music. The band turned out to be a trio of young amateurs, and I didn't even recognize our wedding song. It didn't matter though, because we had a lively group of family and friends, and everyone danced. Towards the end of the reception, the band found their groove, as they knew most of the songs that the older folks requested. Half way through the reception, I got very excited when they announced that they were playing the Hokey Pokey. I looked at my new husband with eyes of expectation and said, "Let's dance!" To my utter astonishment he looked at me with disdain, and said,"there's no way I'm doing that stupid dance!" I was crestfallen. One of his best friend's was standing within earshot and must have seen my disappointment.  I shyly asked him, "Would you do the Hokey Pokey with me?" He didn't even hesitate a moment, as he picked up my hand and kissed it, (like you would kiss the hand of a queen), and replied, " I would be honored to do the Hokey Pokey with the beautiful bride." Hand in hand, we went to the center of the dance floor and performed the entire dance. None of the "cool" young people joined in, but my partner, who was very cool, made me very happy by doing the corny dance with me.  I thanked him with a kiss on the cheek, and continued on with the celebration. My younger brother was "hired" to be the wedding photographer, but as luck would have it, he somehow lost the camera and all of the film. When I appealed to my relatives to contribute any pictures they might have of my wedding, the only contribution in which I am smiling with glee, was a photo of Gerry and I doing the Hokey Pokey. Well, my first husband and I had a marriage that lasted 12 years... we seemed to have grown apart. I am currently married to Gerry, my Hokey Pokey partner of long ago. It is a long complicated story how we got together, but we will be celebrating 13 years of marital bliss this year. For me, the Hokey Pokey is what it's all about!  

The Recurring Dream

Each night I readily drift off into the world of dream, only to wake up several times as the drama of the unconscious events of sleep, shatter in silence, like broken glass. The meaning evades my confused and groggy mind, and finally escapes, like mist in my out-stretched hands. Sometimes, I can vaguely remember places, and people who morph together from the recent past. Often, I dream that I am hurrying down a old-time hospital corridor, wondering who I should minister to next, as cries of agony are echoed from dreary rooms that line the corridors. I can smell ether and rubbing alcohol, and although I am performing my tasks room to room, it seems inadequate in the surrounding misery. These are the anxiety producing nightmares that often occur during times of waking stress. I was a nurse for 25 years, and so it is not surprising that this world of pain would haunt my dreams. However, lately, I am reminded by the most profound of my recurring dreams. I am either in a small village, or on the edge of the ocean, and I can see the angry swell of the sea in the distance, like a pot of boiling soup. The people around me are unaware of any thing unusual, but I have a sense of foreboding. Suddenly, I can see the swell of a gigantic tidal wave coming in my direction, at least a hundred feet high. As the people are screaming around me, and there is a sense of panic and terror, somehow I remain calm and peaceful, and marvel at the approaching spectacle. In the dream, I feel safe, as I have no fear, but I know that once this wall of water passes, I must carry on and help those who survive. I can always feel the spray of water crash upon my head, but surprisingly the blow is no more painful than the whack of a feather pillow. As I hold my nose, and purposely duck into the  base of the wave, I am still calm, but very alert as I tumble about. Suddenly bodies are writhing and moaning on the beach, everyone left in the recede of the tide appears distraught or hurt. Calmly I go to each individual and place my hand on their head, and they are soothed and quietly walk away. Soon all is back to normal again. I wake up and wonder... if put to the test of a real disaster, would I have the strength and character to respond as I do in my dream. I know the answer, but quietly I hope that I never have to be put to the test. 

A Feast to Remember

Just when I thought I could not take another day of the winter doldrums, Imbolc, one of my Wiccan holidays was upon us. Usually celebrated on Feb 1 or 2, my husband Gerry and I chose to celebrate it on Saturday night. This holiday honors the Celtic Goddess Brigit, who is best known for her gifts of healing, silversmithing, poetry and beer-making. The day is marked for the turn of wheel which gives rise to the hope of the coming spring, and is also know as Candlemas the Feast of Flames. The day began with my pronouncement that I wanted to have the Guinness pie that is Gerry's own recipe. After I planned the rest of the menu, which included Spinach with Hot Bacon Dressing, Dilled Baby Carrots, and Dried Cherry Oatcakes for dessert, we went to the market. Giving me hope for Spring in spite of the 22 degree temperature was a big stand of daffodils that were still in bud... we bought several bunches. Once home, Gerry did the preparation for the time consuming stew that is the filling for the pie, and I made the oatcakes. I also prepared the readings that I would recite for the ceremony I would lead later that night. Otis, our bunny, got several extra treats, so he felt included in the celebration. As the sun set, I lit several candles in each room of the first floor, and we recited our chosen poetry to each other as we do for all of our holiday celebrations. We shared some Guinness stout and assorted cheeses (I like Stilton, Gerry likes Brie so we had both). Gerry carved a pentacle into the pie before popping it into the oven, as I prepared the vegetables. Dinner was enjoyed by candlelight and music that has a mystical allure. You probably know Richie Blackmore from the old rock group Deep Purple, and his new rock music includes medieval madrigals, gregorian chants,  and a singer whose voice is like an angelic fairy. After dinner, we both cleaned up and then I prepared my "meditation room" for our ceremony. After casting a circle, lighting candles and incense, and donning my ceremonial cloak, I recited "Charge of the Goddess", as Gerry strummed my tara harp. Several more readings were recited that were particular to the holiday, and then magick was performed (you'll have to use your imagination here as this part of the ritual is sacred). We ended with the traditional cakes and ale (mead), closed the circle, and then gave libations or deliberate leftovers to the fairies who protect our yard. The rest of the night was spent watching Dr. Zhivago on TV. I snapped the above photo of the moon, right before retiring to bed, and couldn't help but marvel that the petals of the underexposed moon, were not unlike the petals of the opening daffodils... which filled me with a sense of hope and wonder.